When I was fourteen, I wore lots of make-up,
My skirts were too short, I looked like a ****.
I had no fears, no worries brought me down,
And boys knew they'd get lucky when I was around.
My best friend, however, was always bare faced,
Her clothes were so bland, she was easily erased.
She stressed little things, like good grades and college,
And she brought the boys down with her exceeding knowledge.
When I was fourteen, I was ***** by a man,
I was loaded, I asked for it, though it wasn't my plan.
I was dressed like a *****, and I teased him til he was begging,
So I wasn't surprised when he held me down, and RIPPED through my leggings.
My best friend, the good girl, yeah, she was ***** too,
What I always wondered was, what did she do?
In her ugly baggy clothes, putting her books in her locker,
Though I guess she was unaware of how those boys stalked her.
When I was fourteen, the rumors began,
"Its her fault, she's to blame, she wanted to sleep with that man."
I just smiled in their face, and held my head high,
I got it, I was a ****, *****, and *****, I knew that was "WHY".
My best friend didn't get it, and couldn't ignore their tales,
Her overwhelming sadness came out, in long painful wales.
Her smile so broken, the cracks were see through,
And her overdose a relief, what else could she do?
When I was fourteen, I learned a hard lesson,
It doesn't matter how you act, or the clothes that you dress in.
Neither innocence nor promiscuity will allow you escape,
Because NO still means NO, and **** still means ****!