Poem

Enjoy the skin you’re in.

This is not the end, we will live on, grow old, die strong.

Every day is new.

And those kids are alright.

They listened to the church radio play it’s gospel blues and we can kiss under the moon.

Love the skin you’re in.

Because in the end the sunset is just another song.

In the end we are still writing our songs in the chalk covered roads.

And they called us greasers. Rebels without applause. We are creators. With weapons of mass construction we build a frivolous future. We are loud. With rasp in our throats we yell our prayers. We are trustworthy. With chlorine wet dreams we sing each other to sleep. We are monsters. With red lips pursed we curse.

And down the street under a light two girls stood. In spray paint jeans, holding arms over their heads they pray to the revolutionaries to bring them pain, bring them anger, bring them bloody knuckled heart break.

We all remember endless nights with smoke between our teeth, ear melting music and broken mirrors.

We are not the end. We ride bra-less, flawless and armed for attack. We live on. For the kids on the back of the bus, for the kids with fire in their hearts, bullets in their chests and scars on their thoughts. They will live on. As long as our teeth are barred,  we will die strong. Every day is new.