The syringe in her arm, her love in her veins
Travels through her crimson life and up into her brain.
The lights go dim, her breathing shorts, the floor is coming closer
Hard linoleum meets her face as her friends call her mediocre.
Pictures flash like Polaroid’s through her mind.
She sifts through her distorted memories for there’s one she has to find:
Her father in his chair, his love in his hand,
White powder bags scattered the room as he took his only stand.
Through her childhood that was all she saw to blame.
Everywhere she went statistics said she would
So she thought, “Why not have a ball?
I may as well be high before I eventually fall.”
One experiment led to another, and now her love was her obsession.
Everywhere she looked she had no other
Her friends told her “yes” when her suppressed common sense told her “no.”
She believed there wasn’t any length to which she wouldn’t go.
Now lying on the floor with blood dripping from her eyes
She got her only clear view of her wasted life.
Started, jarred, jerked back to the now,
She awoke out of her first party and the only thought in her mind was “How?”
Her eyes were no longer bloodshot; her arms had no scars;
Her face was still taut, and her teeth were
Was this still a dream or was it realistic?
Now that she had her life back,
She’d be damned if she’d be a statistic.
She looked around the room and saw her friends’ love in their hands,
White powder bags scatter the room
As she takes her stand.
Watching her feet as she walks toward the door,
Her love falls from her hand as she vows
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