Plaid skirts that hide scars walk in single file. Ties that restrict blood to the brain. Passing notes in math class, (freedom ware your scars of desire), it’s a coming of age story, (freedom ware your scars of desire), conflicting impulses, (freedom wear your scars of desire) cuts seem to bend the sky. I’ve read this book before. Anxious eyes stare out of warped glass waiting for the 3 o’clock bell. I’m trying hard to forget that cold October day, when love challenged freedom to a fist fight, freedom looked victorious but No one was prepared for what would happen on that baseball diamond when love reached beneath her plaid jumper, pulled out a switch blade and drove it…directly through the heart of St. Angelis. Any notion of self-government was left bleeding on the pitchers mound. (So you say you're scaring me, and you won't be there to watch me die.)
