A little black book, filled with the rage of a girl not far past her some - teenth birthday, shoved under the mattress where she cries herself to sleep...

In the room with the bloodstain hidden under the throw rug... The diary with the rules for the dangerous games she plays...

Cryptic carvings, in places normal people say they don't belong, and searching for the bottoms of bottles to cure the constant pain. The pain of breaking through the skin to let the blood flow...

Take a breath, but she can't catch it...
The flood of blood intertwining with the rush of panic...
And she's drowning in the flood, wishing she was high, so she could fly out of this mess...

But the money's gone, and the only potential for drugs is to turn a good trick. No energy to do that either though.

Mom wants to know what's wrong, but there's nothing to say without starting a fight...
Don't worry, there's no boy, no baby, no biggie, move on...

Float away from this frenzied state of mind on a river of booze and lies...
Just be careful not to get sucked in...
The vacuum of peer pressure that is her foundation in life. The poor, preppy, punked - out, whatever they want from her today.
Only so much to give, only so much to take before the well runs dry. Can't forgive any more, can't forget the assault, and the beatings she took for fear of losing everything...

To be nothing, to be alone, too much for him to handle, and she told him as much, then he got mad, and now it's over.