When I was younger, I wish that I would have known better.

Better love makes a fat romance, that lasts for more than a shoe shine.

I’m older, took all the words of my mother, saying,

It could be worse, could be born with that disease, instead of catching it first.

So let’s go back, to the first time, that I met you, in your Chevy, with your hands stretched, and me crying, screaming, “Mercy. Mercy.”

But I know that, I was put here, to fight Vikings, in the cold war, with my arms out, in the front lines, singing, “Dare me. Dare me.”

But these things take time love.

These things take backbone.

And they’ll tell you what you want to hear ’cause they think it’s better. Better.

But you better know how to point out the liars.

You’ve got to weigh your wars make sure you’re not fighting for nothing. Nothing.

Are you fighting for nothing?

It feels like this world has been growing slowly upside down.

Maybe I should move to China, and straighten this mess out.

Maybe I’ll be a poet.

Watch all the sky for falling words.

And write about my grandma’s curtains, or the lady who put the Chinese buffet in her purse.

I’ve got my mouth.

It’s a weapon. It’s a bombshell. It’s a cannon. I’ve got my words.

I won’t give them mercy. Mercy. I’ve got my words. I hope they hurt you.

I hope they scar you. I hope they heal you.

I hope they cut you open, make you see you’ve been warring for all the wrong reasons.

Make you see that some things are worth bruising for.

Make you see that your name is your honor code.

Make you see that your hands you’re accounted for.

Pick and choose where your sweat and your blood will go.

Make you see your life’s not to be lived alone.

Run their spit through your hair, you’re worth nothing. Nothing.