Amy tossed around the sadness of her white trash privilege as her defense for a vulgar perspective on poems themed on the side of the tracks I’d only seen in pictures. I hoped her poems made her famous—not a little, but really famous—like everyone who knows Amy’s name sets off fireworks for each syllable that broke her downfall. If a poem made her famous, she could ruminate less over life’s regrets as she contemplated placing a hose in her car window with the engine running, sitting in the car until I smashed the window to snap her out of her hopelessly romantic poems.
“Amy, it’s time to come home and write about love—real love—write about us.”
Twitter – @AC0040
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