voices from white trash

There​ ​they​ ​were
standing​ ​face​ ​to​ ​face.
Sometimes​ ​she​ ​sees​ ​the​ ​echos​ ​of​ ​them
before
The​ ​fighting​ ​and​ ​fucking​ ​and​ ​pills
Before​ ​the​ ​isms​ ​took​ ​them​ ​both
Sometimes
They​ ​are​ ​children​ ​again
Eating​ ​sickly​ ​ripe​ ​mulberries
Carefully​ ​perched​ ​on​ ​the​ ​lowest​ ​limb
The​ ​bells​ ​of​ ​the​ ​laughter
At​ ​the​ ​treasure​ ​found
new​ ​each​ ​day
Such​ ​sweet​ ​delights
Spring​ ​days​ ​on​ ​front​ ​porches
Watching​ ​the​ ​western​ ​sky
Eyes​ ​like​ ​telescopes
Seeing​ ​the​ ​storm​ ​coming​ ​in
The​ ​sweet​ ​smell​ ​of​ ​rain​ ​and​ ​hail
Watching​ ​lightning​ ​strike​ ​over​ ​mesquite​ ​trees
The​ ​thunder​ ​ripping​ ​through​ ​flesh
Those​ ​days​ ​when​ ​all​ ​she​ ​was​ ​was​ ​a​ ​guardian
A​ ​protector​ ​a​ ​mother
Wiping​ ​the​ ​tears​ ​from​ ​her​ ​dirty​ ​cheeks
Doing​ ​the​ ​best​ ​she​ ​could
Fist​ ​bawled​ ​and​ ​wet​ ​with​ ​sweat
​ ​ready​ ​to​ ​take​ ​on​ ​the​ ​world
For​ ​just​ ​the​ ​two​ ​of​ ​them
Those​ ​faces​ ​now​ ​are​ ​distorted
Mangled
Gnarled​ ​and​ ​calloused
They​ ​are​ ​old​ ​and​ ​worn​ ​down
Wrinkled
Too​ ​many​ ​fights
Too​ ​many​ ​fucks
Too​ ​many​ ​pills
Too​ ​many​ ​isms
Too​ ​many​ ​phobias
Love​ ​forgotten
Deeds​ ​lost
Disgust
Pity
Decadent​ ​loathing​ ​is​ ​all​ ​that​ ​is​ ​left
Fists​ ​flying​ ​toward​ ​faces​ ​and​ ​torsos
Words​ ​hurling​ ​through​ ​the​ ​air
Always​ ​catastrophic
Always​ ​climatic
They​ ​will​ ​never​ ​see​ ​each​ ​other​ ​again
Until​ ​they​ ​do

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