Green fields race past my window, made golden with hot April sun.
Listening to the garbled, near hysterical talk of my older brother,
How his life is now composed of bad jokes and purple sweaters.
Road sloping downward now, seniors all yelling, the only sane one;
His girlfriend, and how beautiful she looks.
I have just been proven not to exist.
We’re going faster now, curves coming more frequently,
And I lean my shoulder into the wall to stop from falling
As death threats rain down around my ears.
This poem, as with all the others, a mangled mix
Of what actually happened,
And what I wish had come to pass.
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