they told us on every license plate.
mom said it was the reason there
were so many idiots on motorcycles
without helmets or nothing.
it was the kind of thing you said
with your finger pointed at the Man.

it was the kind of thing you said
while voting for the Maverick,
or drunk driving, or when you’re
sick and tired of people always
telling you what to do.

apparently it was the kind 
of thing heroes said.
we were kids, we thought
maybe all adults were
hypocrites and we said so.
we knew we’d die, too,
whether we wanted to or not.
we’d write each other on AIM
sharing what color panties
we had on that day.

we only wanted to be left alone, to read books 
all day in M—’s cabin while her mom got wasted,
then watch gory movies and play spin-the-bottle.
we’d walk to the gas station cause we had nothing
better to do, even if it was so wicked cold your
nose’d stop working. we wanted to look cool waiting 
to look cool smoking a cigarette. we knew the spot
by the waterfall where a kid dived and died once
so we’d go and stand there all steel and goose-
bumps ready to jump… maybe one day…

they said we couldn’t just sit there,
we had to learn something, and they made
us stare at two hours of Galapagos tortoises.
we couldn’t talk about evolution so we’d have to
see it for ourselves. we’d put our heads together
in the dark swapping gum, giggling when Brendan
wanted to watch our sneaking tongues.

i’d dream someone’d find out about me.

i’d stand in the shower 
wondering why “live free
or die” wasn’t the kind
of thing you said because
you were gay or you were
fat and ugly. 

i’d rub the razor against my thigh
to see if it felt as good as M— said it would.
we’d be hiding our scars, changing for gym class
in the bathroom stall when she’d brought out the
straight blade. how exhilarating it is to spill blood.
she’d tell me all the ways she’d thought of to die—
how if you slit your wrists in the bath you’d
bleed out quicker. i didn’t know how badly
she’d been hurt, even a best friend
has secrets.

they told us a massacre is uncountable
but we knew the old graveyard by the
abandoned farm and all the little names there. 
they told us we couldn’t just sit silent.
that we are only thirteen years old.
i admitted i hadn’t seen M— since the day
we became blood sisters, when she got off
the bus she’d been chewing a whole pack
of cinnamon gum, Skrillex in her ears. 
it wasn’t our fault we had to run away.

when they found her with the gash in her
they decided maybe Texas was a better place.
we knew the children of revolutionaries were
the children of murderers in either state.
“live free or die” was the kind of thing you said
with two middle fingers: one for the oppressor
and one for the oppressed. they didn’t call us 
gifted for nothing.

on our last day together, we streaked and
hollered through the neighborhood,
smelled each other’s new BO and ate
a  whole  bag  of Doritos
just to know what it felt like
cause live free or die.