Let’s Not Crash and Burn

Here is my crown, I am wearing it now.

This is the first in a line of many bad poems. Intentionally, they are “bad” by the standards and practices that make poetry bad. Being a bad poet and having the balls to do so in the face of “real” poets is an art and I am fucking Picasso.

“Aftermath”

The wind, curling over the rearview mirror
and through the headrest is colder than I guessed
and my company is different than I would’ve guessed.

I’m wedged next to my roommate in the back.
An ex rides shotgun, her friend drives. Their voices tag along
with the wind through the headrests, but get caught
in bass beats.
The music yells at me.
Not why are you doing this but how.
How can you stand it when you wanted her dead,
wanted to tighten your hands around her throat
until she turned as blue as your car?

I hear these questions between the lyrics.
I watch her hand wave in the wind
as we ride down tired dirt roads, past tired houses and worn-out cars.
Rednecks. Trailer Trash.
No country music on, but the words cram my head.
My horrible thoughts.
Town verses Gown. 
The guardrail reflectors blink hello as we pass,
the far-off ones the size and shape of the Lexapro
that’s been subjugating my system into submission for months now.