Little Rows of Flowers
There’s a reason people turn their noses in disgust driving by their high school in their little hometown. Mine’s always been a spitball towards the slimy administration and teachers, hoping my pain would give them the strength to crawl closer to the next paycheck.
The crown was always worn by those deemed, raised in the light of early prenatal small-town fuckery, that ticked a particular checkmark in the books of the administration, that could inherit the attention of underpaid school counselors. Passing periods spent collecting the laughter and tears of those to recycle at a moment’s notice to dangle praise in the competitive corners of advanced courses or blush your face redder than a forgotten crime scene.
No, to those outsiders that threaten the delicate balance of authority, especially those from a poor background, those that would besmirch the hard-earned title of a town hero.
And, forget them in the dying flowers of a simple computer change.
We all die alone.
Except the rich who get someone else to do it.
What will it take to let go
“I was far too scared to hit him/ but I would hit him in a heartbeat now” ( Seventeen Going Under by Sam Fender).