They call us the generation of fuck ups. The kids that are all parts messy and none careful. The children that’ll go down as nothing but plastic in a history of gold. They said we’d never be royals. And we almost believed them.
See, we’re the kids who grew up in the aftermath of two wars. We’re the kids with iron for fists and duct-taped mouths. We never needed to be taught how to fight, we already knew it. We built an empire from everything we touched and sit on thrones made from dust. We drink cheap wine and wear cheaper perfume; we’ll leave both on the clothes of someone we won’t remember come morning. We are the people making drunk phone calls from gas station pay phones, and we are the strangers giving them the quarters to make the drunk calls. We rule with a tongue that doesn’t forget anything but you still crown us with the words we do not remember saying. We played hopscotch in liquor store parking lots and sang along to police sirens. We kiss the asphalt beneath our feet with magma on our tongues; we don’t care if we burn our only path. We traded in our robes for little lace dresses, and we traded in our heels for shoes that light up when the moon’s too sad to come out.
We’ve got 4.0 GPA’s with baggy eyes, we’ve got pretty smiling lips with broken teeth behind them, we’ve got castles, but not homes. We leave our glass hearts behind and hope that person who finds it, won’t shatter it. We slow dance under the flickering lights and leave bloodstains on velvet floors. We eat too little or eat too much. We’re all grease and gluttony, or all starvation and emptiness. It doesn’t matter if we’re at a house party with everyone from school or home alone, we still feel lonely. These teen hands have seen more than they can take, and somedays they shake so much we think they need casts. We’ve got monarch butterflies in our stomachs, baby, and maybe we can call ourselves nobles at last. We’re the girls with red lipstick on our teeth and boys with wildfire eyes. We’re reckless and clumsy. But goddamn, we’re brave. We’re the girls who’ll stop running from an axe murderer to pick another girl off the floor, we’re the girls who’ll take care of each other, we’re the girls with hearts like hearths. We’re the boys who’ll cry on each other’s shoulders, we’re the boys who’ll stop fighting if a kitten came in the way, we’re the boys who’ll love like honey.
We are the generation of fuck ups. But we’re also the kids who are all home runs and wild flowers and eternal stars. We are the generation who never got to make our own mistakes because we were too busy learning from another’s. We are the generation walking on the tightrope, one fall and we lose it all.
Long live the kings and queens of infinite hearts and broken parts.
Long may we reign.