Béibhinn says she is the lone punk of Gort town. Looking at her,
I want to draw thick black lines under my eyes and layer mascara on my lashes. I want to attack a packet of safety pins and make piercings about my body.
I want to splurge on platform high-laced boots, a leather jacket with spikes, belts, a choker, and I want fucking chains.
I want to stick The Clash in my ears, hop on the 2.40 to Gort, stride up Bridge Street, knock fists with Béibhinn’s friend Mike, that skinhead, and tip on up to find our tribe.
On the train, myself and Béibinn will redefine radical thinking.
At Ceannt Station, we will scrawl our best words in purple lipstick on toilet walls. I will scream radical thoughts at the top of my lungs on a soapbox on Shop Street. The blood of my home piercings will get infected and I won’t care.
The Valium is ineffectual.
I will be a punk and pretty, oh so pretty.