Her head starts to race.
The bass is booming to loud.
You know she's never felt the way that she does now.
The boy she walked in with is nowhere to be found.
And as she stares into the bottle, she knows where she is now.
That's what you get when you screw with your friends
and leave everything behind for something glamorous.
Instead of your dream, fucking the prom king,
you lay drunken in a stupor.
Neck deep in what you couldn't be.
I'm sick of you.
I'm sick of every other night and every other fight.
I wish that I could tell you this and how it makes me feel.
And to think that I felt sorry for you.