From Emily Taylor: The Crown Ain't Worth Much (by Hanif WIllis-Abdurraqib) is a masterpiece and there are so many things to do with it & anything I write doesn't seem to do it justice tbh. this is after his poem after Fall Out Boy. on finding your old converse from 2009
Emily Taylor covered in rusty watercolor from the wet sand of the baseball diamond where you’d run in circles to ward off the undiagnosed hyperactivity, and under that, scrawled lists of bands and favorite lyrics in thin Sharpie; partially to prove that you were a cool girl, even though you are neither a girl, nor cool, at ALL, but also because you didn’t think your own words were good enough to clothe you yet. These cocktails of punk quotes your first found poem, your first toolbox for expression, those were the years of painting someone else’s words all over your town, to write on your wrist so the permanent marker tingle replaced an old sting, you were honestly a parody of yourself. Since then, you’ve found words of your own to protect yourself, but on those days where your words aren’t enough, you pop in your old headphones, lace up your shoes, and remember the songs you pulled apart with your two hands, coaxing this new voice into your throat.
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