The Fool -deluxe Edition- -2011- | Warpaint -

June thought of her mother crying in the kitchen, pretending to chop onions. She thought of herself in the school parking lot last week, watching her ex-best friend get into another girl’s car without looking back.

“I’m not brave,” June whispered.

The deluxe edition is never the clean version. It’s the one with the broken takes, the extra verses, the mess left in. Warpaint - The Fool -Deluxe Edition- -2011-

“You heard it,” the Fool said, not opening her eyes. “Most people don’t.”

The Fool pulled a crumpled set list from her jacket pocket. It was handwritten on the back of a receipt: June thought of her mother crying in the

She touched her forehead. The paste had transferred. A tiny white streak, sharp as a razor, soft as a breath.

There she was. A girl—no, a woman—no, something else entirely. She sat cross-legged on the cracked asphalt, a vintage cassette deck in her lap. Her hair was a tangle of black and silver, and her eyes were closed. On her cheeks, hand-painted in what looked like crushed berries and soot, were two white streaks: one sharp as a razor, the other soft as a breath. The deluxe edition is never the clean version

She handed June a small tin. Inside was a paste, dark as dried blood but sweet-smelling, like roses and gasoline.

June hugged her arms. “Heard what?”

“The warpaint.” The Fool tapped her temple. “In your head. The sound you make when you’re trying to be brave but you’re really just a fool.”