Punk Rock Girl
I'll be a punk rock girl until I die.
Sitting here hiding in cig smoke, reminiscing the old days.
The kids at the shows.
Sweaty and drippy and lost in the beat.
Young punk love next to the train tracks.
Rainy days.
Drippy Elmer’s glue in my eyes.
Nazi skins break my back.
Delusions of grandeur.
You and me planning journeys, lying under the stars in a beat-up Buick Skylark.
Crying at the Meat is Murder house for all the sorry suckers who go to work and drop bombs on all our sisters and brothers.
No one understands you when you’re sixteen with a pink trihawk.
Starting bands.
Tagging walls.
Run, run, running away.
Tell the principal to fuck off.
No, I won’t pledge no allegiance to your flag.
Cutting my hair, itchy and sweaty.
Don’t want to be pretty.
Hairy pits.
Being something…
I’m not anymore….
No longer the lonely punk rock girl, born from suicide dreamers.
Everybody I knew grew into it. But you never really grow out of it.
That first taste of freedom. Not knowing why we get drunk at the graveyard and sing “Code Blue.”
But back then, it was just a hot summer with some Mickeys, and I don’t remember how it started, and I don’t know how it will end.
But I can see it coming, sometimes, from a mile away, so I blink my eyes and watch the river flow through the legs of the city,
and remember when,
All I wanted was to drop out of school and run away with you.
Like what you read? Want more Punk Rock stories? Check these out from my Punk Rock Sex Addiction memoir: Here and Here
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Peace, Love, and Anarchy, your pal,
Border Land Delia-Ann
Weirdly my first car was a beat up Buick Skylark. Glittery blue.
I can feel the Elmer's glue melting with the sweat from the pit. You were one of the punks I admired and feared. I was, like, a lipstick punk.