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“Like a wounded soldier
Trudging the old road home,
But I ain’t the old me,
And I walk this path alone.
I’m battle-worn, I’m battle-torn
With these scars inside my chest,
Kept up that happy face for you,
To hide that I’m a mess.

But I gave you every ounce of fight in me,
And I have no regrets.
If I was going to lose you,
At least I lost you to my best.
But it felt so wrong,
So tangled up in blue,
Like that old Dylan song,
Like I don’t know who I am,
Now that you’re gone.

But I lived through the pain.
Now I see the other side.
Now I know that life’s too short
To shut myself down and hide.
I’m battle-torn, but I’m battle-born.
These scars are part of me.
I got nothing left but what I’ve learned,
And I’ll use that, and you’ll see,

I can still give every ounce of fight in me,
Till I have no regrets,
Because if I’m going to lose someone,
I’m gonna lose her to my best.
And I’ll be strong,
When a hard rain’s a-gonna fall,
Like that old Dylan song,
You’re the reason I stand tall,
And that will never be gone.”
― Emery Lord, Open Road Summer

“That's the second reporter to call me 'boyish.'"
"Boyish is nice," Dee offers.
He tips his head towards her. "I'm nineteen. I'm not boyish."
"It's your hair," I tell him without glancing up from the magazine, and Dee laughs.
"My hair?" he asks, incredulous. "What's wrong with my hair?"
"Nothing. But you had it that way when you were younger, right? During the Finch Four years?"
He frowns. "Yeah, I guess. I don't know."

"Yeah," Dee says. "You did. Same haircut. Kind of almost shaggy."
"Shaggy?"

"Yeah." I gesture near his ear. "It sort of starts to curl right here. The look is a little..."
Dee and I both study his face for a moment.
"...boyish," Dee decides.
We both giggle, and Matt's eyes widen as if we've betrayed him. "Girls are mean! I'm bailing out of this bus at the next rest stop."
"Unlikely," I tell him.”
― Emery Lord, Open Road Summer