Armour

Sticks and stones may break our bones but words, they sting like knives.
Every shout has a consequence, every slur takes a life.
When we grew up our band shirts were like bullet-proof vests, and jeans:
Well, they completed the battle gear.
Because when we grew up having a hole in your jeans meant having a hole in your armour.
School is combat, and my body, a warzone.
Every day starts the same way, ‘scene’
Every day ends the same way, ‘goth’
Stand up for ourselves get sat back down, fight back and get knocked out.
When black turns to grey, the pockets tear and fray,
But our jeans stay the same way
No one protected us and no one shouted the indecency of the world.
We made ourselves scarce, shirt deflecting the sticks and stones,
Jeans deflecting the harmful taunts.
The words ‘I don’t care’ littered our mouths, even if we did.
Eyeliner like war paint, covering our eyes, Piercings like earmuffs covering our ears.
It’s who we are and who we were.
The kids at the back of the class, wearing our band tees and black skinny jeans,
The ones they called ‘emo’