Blondie in NYC

And I'm writing to you with mascara, with a matchstick

with my blood, with what I have left

This is how I became, not a person, not a women

This is how I became, finally a poem.

A poem sent home from war

This is my hurricane, This is my scream

And this is for you.

If you can hear me, scratch your name

sing a song, tell me a story

Tell me, Tell me, 

You hear me