Laughs and screams,
Smiles and tears
A newly found love,
And "the boy I was gonna marry heartbreak".

You yell at your parents,
Hit your little brother,
And for what?
Because your mad at some high school boy,
Who couldn't keep it in his pants?

You should be yelling at him...
But ohh no...
You could never do that.
"It was a mistake."
He says,
"I love you, and I promise I'll never,
Ever, ever, ever do it again."
And then tops it off with a dazzling smile,
And runs his fingers through your hair,
Kisses your cheek,
And says,
"I gotta run, love ya babe."

Yeah...
He's gotta run...
Run to your bestfriends house,
Because he's bangin' her tonight.

Liar.

Ooops...
He did it again.
It was an accident..
Again.

But you forgive him,
Because you love him,
And he "loves" you.

You throw your friend to the side and proclaim,
"Its all her fault!"

But then one night when yall are hanging out,
He goes to the bathroom,
And leaves his phone sitting on the bed.

BUUUZZZZ

New text message,
From some girl named Brittany?
"Who the hell is Brittany?"

Not thinking,
You open the text.
It says,
"We gotta talk, now."

"Why is this chick wanting to talk to MY man?",
You think to yourself.

"What's going on."
"It broke..."

"What broke?"
"The ****** you idiot."

"What do you mean?"
"I'm pregnant."

There it is.
He did it once again,
And ******* up big time.

Can you forgive him?
There's physical,
Living,
Evidence this time.

You do what any rational teenage girl would do...
You throw a tantrum,
Scream "I hate you.",
And run home to daddy.

You tell daddy...
Daddys mad.
He runs out of the house,
Gets in the truck,
And races down the road,
Without a word.

You go up to your room,
Because what else can you do?

You go to your desk,
And see your drawings,
A beautiful art,
Thats always been your outlet.
But hows it gonna work for you this time?
What are you gonna do?
Draw him on top of the name Brittany,
With his **** in the middle of the A?

You sling everything off your desk.
The pencil sharpener hits the wall,
And breaks,
Leaving the metal blades exposed.

You pick it up,
And begin to draw.
But this time,
There isnt any pencils,
And there isnt any paper,
Just metal and skin.

You hack away at your teenage soul,
Going through your "emo" phase,
Wanting to feel normal,
And trying to make a time machine,
With your blood as the key,
To get rid of all the hurt he had caused.

"How did you handle the pain of all that?"
People at school ask when the word gets around.
"Drawing is my outlet."
You say,
And then walk away,
Pulling down your sleeves,
So your broken teenage soul is encased in last years sweater.

A teenage soul.
At 13,
So alive,
So new.
By 18,
Its dead.