Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

small-town turds

I wonder if anyone else remembers Rory like I do? She was EVERYTHING. You couldn’t go to a protest without seeing her. Yelling, no, screaming at the top of her lungs about starfish survival rates and how fuckbois were ruining the social justice scene. You always felt a little bit lighter after talking with her. She had seen parts of this world that didn’t make sense to small-town turds like me.

Tom used to say that she was mucho mucho caliente, so much so that it made him itch. I thought we were done talking about women like that, but I guess he never quite grew up. I wonder how he remembers her?

Is there any shred of her humanity left in the back of his head or is she just the appalling stain that made front-page news?

It’s still the only time I’ve heard of one person needing two death certificates.



Trying to find the right words.

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