cries too hard
the whitlams

torch the moon, burn the schools
she wrote in red on her bedroom wall -
'nothing's pure', the paint runs to the floor

she laughs too easily and cries too hard
shouldnt drink alone, the colours run
how can she forgive
when we know well what we do?

feather scratches on her wrist
dry run with a bread knife for a final twist
it wouldnt be for show if it should come to this

she was born to feel it all, to see it all
when i feel so lightly its still burning brightly
and she wont look away

torch the moon, burn the schools
why's it a man making all the rules
frida khalo poster on her door