it's midnight and my pen is skipping across paper
like there's no tomorrow, like we could inhale tonight
and time stop here and now – stop and give me
a break. There are pencil sharpenings and empty
sharpies on the floor, and goddammit I wish I could write
something happy for once, stop scribbling on my palms
during school assemblies, stop looking out of the window
for a silhouette that never approaches.

I'm not one of them; I don't do drugs, or get drunk, or
break laws, or, or... & oh!
We are popular, we are pretty, we are perfect.
(we are ohsofrivolous, we are fucking fake.)

if I venture (almost guiltily) to be honest with myself, I know
I'll never know. But this is what it's like when your friends
go through hell. This is what it's like
when you forget to save them, this is what it's like to
pile blame on yourself when you don't even try (talk about confession and absolution).

This is too easy.