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squeaky metal and mostly empty theaters

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Feeling the most alive at concerts,
The music vibrating up from the floor and through my veins.
Running outside with your voice in the speaker in my hand,
Getting drenched in adolescence and the thrashing summer storm.
You know the kind, where roads gather steam and the lighting illuminates the night,
So it looks like noon for minutes, and later tinged purple.
How we watch Scrubs all night,
And you drink your weight in iced tea.
Or singing Springsteen out open car windows.
And falling asleep and in love in mostly empty theaters,
Watching mostly terrible movies.
But not really watching,
Because the Axe is so strong that every other sense is murky
And rendered obsolete, regardless.
Swinging on squeaky metal, with bodies on my lap,
Getting cut up every night by the brambles and just shaving my legs.
How most days end on my living room rug,
Laughing and searching for bruises, because my ribs are so sore.
You know when I cry, my wrists throb in pain,
Sixteen year old boys break hearts without knowing,
And are jerky and sudden with the gas and the breaks.





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