You're seventeen and you're bitter, so fucking bitter, because your friends have gone elsewhere and you've been left all alone and you kissed him but he's been saying her name and the taste isn't what you wanted it to be. You're seventeen and you're smoking now, you're smoking to get rid of the taste of her from your lips because as much as you wish he loved you like he loves her, you're never going to be her and some things are just too close for you to deal with. You're seventeen and it's the evening, your father has gone out and you've been left home alone with a cupboard full of alcohol and a draw full of pills. A handful of this and a glass of that, how bad could it be? You're still seventeen and you're throwing up and you can't control it anymore, you don't know if you really want to die or not but your body is giving up, your brain made that decision the second you stumbled into the bathroom with a bottle in one hand and a blade in the other. You're not seventeen anymore; you're not really anything. You're gone.