Rolling hills, where I gained self loathing. Grass unbending to gusts of needed wind. Water holes run dry with heat. He is a drunk bastard with no beads of sweat. Cattle crossings and southern embellishment mascaraed as the sentiments of home. Trees of subtle shade bring relief to my worn down eyes, squinted under a cap of brown, tender sweat. A dinged white undershirt, thin: my mother has washed too many times.
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Emily--
I'm not quite sure how you feel about poetry, (cause it's my fave, maybe that's why I am going in this direction) but I see a lot of potential in this piece for a poem. And if not exactly quite a poem, then maybe add the language to your junkyard, or flesh out the story more. For example, if I were to create some poetic elements out of this... It might go something like this: Rolling hills, grass unbending,/ gusts of wind needed./ Holes run dry.... (You get where I'm going?) Awesome. Also, the "self-loathing" is a bit ambiguous. I would try to work on that as well. Great job.
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