my favorite flavor of soda is regret (i'm a melodramatic drop of cold sweat)

i'm sitting pretty,
wasted inside my sheets.
soon to be washed out on the concrete
like a faded chalk drawing.

i stare at a screen,
killing time and killing myself waiting.
sixteen going on seventeen
i'm a realist when i shouldn't be.

in the parking lot of sears
at midnight riding shopping carts
it looked post apocalyptic but we were infinite.
till we got scared at the thought of killers lurking.

i haven't lived,
never tasting cherry chapstick
or the sting of stolen drinks
while swinging my legs,
casting a shadow bigger than me
over the highway.

you're on top of the world, baby
but all i wanna do is drag you down to my level
to see what you did to me
or at least hit you with a heavy dose of reality.

i'm a voice of reason you don't miss.
happiness doesn't exist
but i can be content
in my first-world (self-created) misery.

don't try to shoot me with another pleasantry.