They call her trash, like her name doesn't matter anymore. She's been married four times, and she's only 23. She's had five kids, three with different fathers. None of them live with her anymore. She drinks, smokes, and whatever. She lives in a trailer, of course. She makes money any way she can. The whole town knows and talks about her with amusement, disgust, and even hatred.
But tonight, as I lay in her bed and she holds me while I cry over my dead wife and son, she isn't trash to me, but a treasure to my shattered heart.
But tonight, as I lay in her bed and she holds me while I cry over my dead wife and son, she isn't trash to me, but a treasure to my shattered heart.
