Sherman Alexie - Part of "Crazy Horse Dreams" lyrics

"What's wrong?" she asked, reaching for the light again, but he stopped her, held her wrist tightly, painfully. "Why don't you have any scars?" he asked, pulling her face close to his, her braids touching his chest. "Why do you have so f**ing many?" she asked him. Then she was afraid of the man naked beside her, under her, afraid of that man who was simple in clothes and cowboy boots, a feather in a bottle. "You're nothing important," he said. "You're just another goddamned Indian like me." "Wrong," she said, twisting from his grip and sitting up, her arms crossed over her chest. "I'm the best kind of Indian and I'm in bed with my father." He laughed. She was silent. She thought she could be saved. She thought he could take her hand and owldance her around the circle. She thought she could watch him fancydance, watch his calf muscles grow more and more perfect with each step. She thought he was Crazy Horse. He got up, pulled on his Levi's, bu*toned his red-and-black flannel shirt, the kind some writer called an Indian shirt. He stepped into his cowboy boots, opened the tiny refrigerator, and grabbed a beer. "You're nothing. You're nothing," he said and left. Standing in the dark, next to a tipi with blue smoke escaping from the fire inside, he watched the Winnebago. For hours, Victor watched the lights go on and off, on and off. He wished he was Crazy Horse.