she's been living on overdoses ever since she was sixteen,
and now her body's been scrubbed clean-inside and out.
she just sits in the dark with nothing to do but think about
the things she might have been.

a little girl once said "don't be something that you're not",
but that girl was just quoting her mother, who just read it in a book.
the little girl plays alone and hopes that when she's older,
she'll have better things to do than sit alone in a fire-truck wagon that doesn't move.

her daddy's drug is legal, and her mamma's addiction is fed
by seven-eleven and supermarkets.
her words go unheard. she's left out to play
for hours in a grass backyard.

"those friends are trouble, nothing but trouble"
is what her daddy always said.
but if sitting alone and rotting your brain
isn't trouble, than how bad can trouble be?
so she picks up the slack at school,
and does their dirty work for them.
they tell her she'll be pretty, they tell her she'll make friends,
they tell her it's just pretty colors, and she's never been taught the difference.
the difference between art and vandalism,
between fun and self-destruction.
so she takes the blame when they're caught like rats,
and she's sent to a white house that's supposed to wash you,
but just covers up the stains.

she sits in the dark, amongst the smoke, in front of the screen,
and she tells herself that anything
is better than this.