She looks at me - you're smoking, aren't you? It's that familiar tone (s p i r a l l i n g hope of despair) and my answer - no. Spit it out in anger, vicious s y l l a b l e s upon my tongue, holding everything I know and hate and hide.
She's teenage complacency that refuses to cry, won't talk, won't try. And she hates the looks they give her, s m o k i n g teenager, d r u n k e n teenager, f i n a l l y fucking pregnant teenager and she's always been the one with just enough money to go private.
And how do you explain complete and utter lack of a p a t h y, and a smile so wide it's got to be real? And did she mention the bubblegum tongue – it tastes s w e e t e r tinged with vodka and she knows, she says, with that same old smile.
Because I know that one day I'll get out of h e r e and even when they whisper the you're not pretty, you're not special lines they forget they only h i t the nicotinealcoholpainkiller side. They forget she's just another clichéd teenaged little girl who loves sticky sweet lemonade s u m m e r s and rain that hides the tears (they never come but it's a nice thought anyway)
And when I look into a mirror I see maxfactor and maybelline, blonde hair and happy eyes – I tried all my life to be the perfect pretty and when I fucked it over I kept it all I n s i d e and the moral of this story is
Why stop now? She's not going to write anymore.