She was born into angriness,
grew up screaming,
slept without dreaming,
learned to fight and now
yearns to return to the night
where her soul camouflages.

She chains herself to the beat,
wants to cheat the aesthetes and
swallow the toxic lyrics,
padlocked to the sweet poison;
the radiation causes mutations
from over-exposure
to biohazard music.

Her hair is a different flavor every week
and comes in a box prepared.
She bares her scars and
wears metal bars because she likes to
languish in the anguish
of an inner rebellion;
she thinks she's hell on wings
and she's got a war to win
but no foe to overthrow.

She scribbles the liberties of teenagers
on street corners and bathroom stalls,
A Bill of Wrongs on the walls
and a Will for the throng who might
die in the fight against
the Age of Enlightenment and the law.

She's in love with hate but she's
got a date with Fate
and she's running late again,
darting through traffic laughing
while half the ladies yell she's a menace
and the other half say Well,
she's goin' to Hell.

She's got stars in her eyes
and spikes on her pants to keep the guys out
she rants about lies and what the media
likes to sensationalize.
She kicks up dirt with big black boots
she's ready to hurt the girls who try to convert her
to the Sugar and Spice cult.

Her whisper is a growl,
her laugh a roar
and when she speaks she's
got a permanent scowl
that leaks extra vowels that won't erase
from the ears of innocents
or from the lines on her face.

She comes wrapped in Caution tape
and she can't escape the label Warning: Explosive.
Her words are corrosive 'cause
She's got a caustic tongue
and an excess of hydrogen in her head.
Do Not Shake
unless you want to end up dead
when the fire in her heart mixes with the
ions in her head.

A/N: Knocked off the last stanza because the rhymes were atrocious. Thank you for the crit!

She is fictional. She lives in my head.