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Still Hungry

Alexa Vallejo | Poetry

We’re from where everyone’s mean to each other. We’re from Delaware. We are sitting in a bagel place in Charlottesville, VA, still early in our tour of in-fighting and bullshit. We are the Fleetwood Mac of obscure DIY bands no one will remember. Onwards. I fucking love being brown in this convenience store, nestled somewhere in the Carolina mountains, already weary of side-eye racism.

We smoke hookahs in Tallahassee, eat vegan soul food in Macon and Asheville. Dysfunction reigns, even at our feasts. Like, can’t we just pretend to be nice?

In South Carolina, waiting for pizza, I drop an Airborne in whiskey, call it the Flying V. Thank Chichester, PA. Off 95 North, we smoke outside

a Taco Bell, where John Pyle orders bean burritos. Hungover as always,
I steal Elyse’s cinnamon twists, I suck down that sweet Baja Blast. Nine days of strife and palliative eating. At least our last show is a banger, upstairs
in a cafe, where I sing sans mic
over drums and a cello, I strum my acoustic and yell. It’s a choice, you know, to shout to be heard. But sometimes there’s no other way.