[Verse 1 — delicate, playful synths, almost like a music box]

I borrowed light from the bathroom mirror,
painted gold around my eyes.
Changed my clothes until the evening
couldn’t tell me who I’d tried to be.

There are gardens in my phone screen,
girls who never seem to bruise.
I watch them bloom beneath the bright lights
while I count the things I’d lose.

Every face becomes a question,
every picture holds a key.
I keep searching through their beauty
for the door that leads to me.

[Pre-Chorus — soft, fragile]

I know the moon is only silver
when the dark is holding still.
Still, I ask the glass to love me
like I never learned it will.

[Chorus — explosive, aching]

PRETTY ISN’T REAL,
but the wound beneath it is.
There’s a kingdom made of mirrors,
and I kneel before its queens.

I keep stitching borrowed features
to the face I was born in,
like a portrait torn to pieces
could be beautiful again.

PRETTY ISN’T REAL,
then why does it feel true?
Why do I keep losing myself
in the shape of someone new?

If these halos are just lighting,
if these angels are designed,
why do I leave my own reflection
every time I close my eyes?

[Verse 2 — playful rhythm, a shadow underneath]

I know the little tricks of heaven,
where to stand and how to shine.
How to turn a passing second
into proof that I am fine.

I can smooth away the weather,
make the tired daylight glow.
Leave no evidence of winter
in the face I let them know.

And the girl behind the picture
wears a smile that fits just right.
She’s the one they call beautiful.
I meet her every night.

[Pre-Chorus 2 — rising tension]

I can see the threads of silver,
I can see the painted sky.
But a lie can still feel holy
when you’ve prayed to it your whole life.

[Chorus — bigger, layered vocals]

PRETTY ISN’T REAL,
but the wound beneath it is.
There’s a kingdom made of mirrors,
and I kneel before its queens.

I keep stitching borrowed features
to the face I was born in,
like a portrait torn to pieces
could be beautiful again.

PRETTY ISN’T REAL,
then why does it feel true?
Why do I keep losing myself
in the shape of someone new?

If these halos are just lighting,
if these angels are designed,
why do I leave my own reflection
every time I close my eyes?

[Bridge — piano, intimate and almost weightless]

Once, my face was just a window
with the morning passing through.
I never stopped to ask the daylight
if it made me beautiful.

When did glass become a judge?
When did skin become a sin?
When did I mistake the doorway
for the whole world I was in?

I have made a thousand versions,
each one lovelier than the last.
But the girl beneath the varnish
is still waiting in the dark.

And I don’t know how to reach her.
I don’t know what I should say.
I’ve been trying to paint her perfect
while the colours wash away.

[Build — heartbeat, rising strings, distant camera clicks]

Another layer.
Another name.

A softer shadow
to cover the same.

If I could make the picture flawless,
would the ache forget my face?

Or would I find another mirror
and disappear without a trace?

[Final Chorus — devastating, full production]

PRETTY ISN’T REAL,
but the wound remembers me.
I have worshipped my reflection
till there’s barely anything to see.

All these borrowed little heavens,
all these stars I tried to wear—
I was so afraid of being ordinary
I became a ghost in there.

PRETTY ISN’T REAL,
but I still want to believe.
That somewhere in the perfect picture
there’s a place for someone like me.

If the beauty is a painting,
if the whole world’s just a screen,
why’s the girl outside the frame
the one I never let them see?

[Outro — a single piano note, almost whispered]

I found a picture from the summer
when I hadn’t learned to pose.

My hair was caught inside the wind.
My eyes were half-closed.

I looked so much like someone
I remember being once.

I tried to find her in the mirror,
but the mirror gave me no one.

There are pictures on my phone now
of the girl I tried to be.

I don’t know when she replaced me.
I only know she wears my name.

And somewhere underneath her,
like a letter lost at sea,
there’s a little girl still waiting
for the face she used to see.

I wish I’d kept her picture.

I wish I’d let her be.

[The piano note fades.]

[Silence.]