She looks at me - you're smoking, aren't you? It's that familiar tone ( hope of despair) and my answer - no. Spit it out in anger, vicious 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, teenager, teenager, 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 o y, and a smile so wide it's got to be real? And did she mention the bubblegum tongue – it taste tinged with vodka and she knows, she says, with that same old smile.

Because I know that one day I'll get out o e and even when they whisper the you're not pretty, you're not special lines they forget they onl the nicotinealcoholpainkiller side. They forget she's just another clichéd teenaged little girl who loves sticky sweet lemonad 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 al and the moral of this story is

Why stop now? She's not going to write anymore.