This girl with red hair
sat across from me
and asked if she could
read the poem my
notebook opened to:
“Cool,” she said
“I write emo poems;
not cool poems.”
“I’m sure there’s a
place for them
somewhere.”
Then I smiled.
“You don’t have
any drugs, do you?”
“No.” I said.
“Any at all?”
“Sorry,” I said
and watched her
walk away.
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