"Drink this," you said.
"What's in it?" I asked.
"Magic," you claimed.
Inhale, exhale. Mess with my spoon a little. Ponder. Plot. Plan. Next move.
I'm running to the bathroom with my glass,
You're like, "What's wrong?" and I just cup my hand over my mouth like I'm gonna be sick but instead I just pour it out, watching the magic flow down the drain.
I'm fifteen and I don't want to be here. I don't want to be like this but I know it'll make me friends. I don't want to feed into the teenage cliche but here I am, at a party in a loft thick with potsmoke, I'm choking, my eyes streaming. I'm done but I have no way out.
Found my way to the closet.
Locked myself in.
Stayed there all night.
So much for popularity.
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