You hear about it at a young age,
that it burns.
There's different types of flavors,
all sounding exotic.
When you're little it's frowned upon,
adults telling you to never drink it.
But they don't know you watch them,
watching them drown in it.
One
Two
Three
Four
Five bottles.
When there's none left,
they turn to shots.
Grabbing limes or salt,
throwing their heads back and then coughing.
It seems fun right,
seems free.
You grow up,
it's more in demand than cigarettes.
High school kids start drinking it,
passing around the bottle.
Don't you want a sip,
don't you want to forget what's hurting you?
Peer pressure kicks in,
you'll be lame or you'll regret if you don't do it.
Your hand wraps around the bottle,
smelling it makes you nervous.
What's the worst that could happen,
just bring it to your lips?
You do just that,
letting the smell become a flavor on your lips.
Tilting your head back slowly,
the liquid pours into your mouth.
Don't spit it out,
let it burn and swallow it.
Your chest starts to feel warm,
feels good right?
It's your turn again,
another sip.
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight sips later.
Wake up,
a headache daring to kill you.
Do you remember,
it feels good not to remember.
Want more?
Mama's liquor cabinet is calling your name.
Wait until they're asleep,
then grab your poison.
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six shots.
Vision's blurry,
you feel warm.
It doesn't matter that that boy hurt you,
you don't care.
Your grades are slipping,
there's rum stains on your calculus work.
Maybe this is what you need,
don't you want to forget?
