“Let it go, stupid.
You don’t need to hang a label on it. 
You don’t need to rage about it.
You don’t need to fight.”

“Let it go, stupid.”
You have a shiny bleachface.
You have a cute bubble there.
You live in Bleachface Nation.

Let it go, you say? NO.
I hang a label on it.
I rage about it.
I need to fight.

“Tired of hyperbole…”
NO.  Not exaggeration.
Must say it.  Must be said.
My friends walk around terrified, mad, tired,

and I’m terrified mad tired with them.
Bleachface Nation demands terror
of them.  How can Bleachface
shine without that?  

And yes I look a little Bleachface myself.
I look just like the Big Fat Old Baddest Bleachface.
I am none of that — instead, my dark dad’s son.
But you’ll never know if I don’t prove it.

If I don’t prove it, state it,
call it out, fight, rage, battle, 
hang a label if it needs hanging,
I become Big Bad.  I become

the Lie.  I might as well
knock on Bleachface Nation’s
pastel door.  Might as well 
stride on in.  Lock out 

what’s hanging on my heels.
Lock out my dad, grandfolks, 
cousins.  Lock up a bit of me —
shit, I might have to share a cell

with YOU.