Lena rolled down the window. The humid air slapped her face. She stuck her arm out, palm flat, and let the resistance push her hand up and down. She was a wing. She was a fist.
You drive down a highway at midnight with the windows down. Your hair is a mess. Your heart is a clenched fist. You are not sad. You are powerful in your sadness. This song is not about getting over it. This song is about becoming the storm. Edge Of Seventeen
You are seventeen, which means you are a raw nerve. Which means the world is a fist, and you are the glass. Stevie understood this. She wrote this song on a piano in a house full of ghosts, after a friend died, after a band died, while the white-winged dove outside the window kept singing the same flat note. Lena rolled down the window
"Yeah," she said, and the word felt like a cliff. "Let's go to the edge." She was a wing