Edge Of: Seventeen

"I'm seventeen," she replied. It was the only explanation she ever gave.

The voice enters not as a melody, but as a crack in the dam. Ooh, baby... ooh, said baby. It is not seduction. It is survival. Each syllable is a rock thrown at a window you can’t break. The chorus isn’t a release—it’s a seizure. And the days go by, like a strand in the wind. Edge Of Seventeen

The guitar wailed. The car kept moving. Seventeen was a razor, and she was learning, finally, how to hold it without bleeding. "I'm seventeen," she replied

The song on the radio was old, before either of them were born. A woman's voice, ragged and soaring, over a guitar that sounded like a drill or a prayer. Ooh, baby... Ooh, baby