It's prom and she's sinking, spiralling.
Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's the people.
In the end, they're all the same anyway, things you use at your own volition, your pleasure.
Oh, God, why am I here, I don't belong.
Sixteen, senior year.
In some guy's bathroom.
The teenage dream, she laughs.
Who cares? At least I'm not with them.
Words of a whore, a devil worshipper.
How they managed to turn everybody against her was now (a solved) an unsolved mystery.
Nobody's ever going to believe her, efforts are futile.
How could I fall for it, why would(n't) I?
He was nice, he cared, but she knew, she knew deep-down that it was all too saccharine.
Cakes, dates, and fakes.
Adolescence is a labyrinth that leads to dead-ends, and only dead-ends.
I (won't) can't change anything, there's no point in trying.
She tore at the medicinal cabinet door for (an) the escape.
There it was, her serenity, her nirvana.
So why wouldn't she take it when it was right there, in arms reach?