You call me white trash
Maybe I am
Maybe that’s the word
I was trying to find
When I was wearing clothes from the church’s clothes closet
When I was being touched
When I was riding in the floor board of a mini van down I-35
When I
was changing and feeding my elders
When I was curling my toes so my shoes wouldn’t hurt
When I was eating fish tails
When I was tiptoeing around rats
When I was ******* in
When I was trying not to show my teeth
and when I was ******* you on backroads in the country
The stars look prettier from the top of a cellar
And crying alone doesn’t hurt so bad in the back of a old beaten down boat
In the back of my grandpa’s truck I could hide from my anger
And I can still hear me screaming if I listen
Food stamps made summers happy
Cantaloupe in the yard for deer
They sure do love the rinds
A side of me you didn’t really see
Just something I let you feel sometimes
Something I only let those I trust feel
But now I’m white trash
And you’re still a trust fund baby
I know I climbed up and jumped
But every step higher felt like I was being kicked
down
And my mother thinks I’m wrong
Because I traded my lobster for reduced meat $4.99 a pound
But taste is nothing if it gets caught
in
your
throat