Torch the moon, burn the schools   She wrote in red on her bedroom wall, "Nothing's pure"   The paint runs to the floor      She laughs too easily and cries too hard   Shouldn't drink alone, the colors run   How can she forgive when we know well what we do?      Feather scratches on her wrist   Dry run with a bread knife for a final twist   It wouldn't be for show if it should come to this      She was born to feel it all, to see it all   When I feel so lightly, it's still burning brightly   And she won't look away      Torch the moon, burn the schools   Why, it's a man making all the rules   Frida Kahlo poster on her door