Poverty skews you like a vice, you come out twisted with hollows in all the wrong places. Old frailties creak in the silence, ill-healed fractures go sore with the weather, they say another snow storm is on its way and I haven't yet dug out my car from the last, my shovel broke in the middle of a snowbank.
I unravel like confetti, lost and tumbling in the whirlwinds, forgetting who I am and why, I always needed so much more time to wrap my head around other peoples' words and if there is one thing I have less of than money it is, indeed, hours. I'm trying to keep my feet on the ground, you know, but I think I have never been closer to driving off into the sunset. If you pulled up with a van and a plan right now, I'd get in without asking a single question.
Hell, if you pulled up with a 9-5, a pile of laundry and a front porch mortgage, I might be just as glad.
It's hard to choose the right path when your body's too hungry to walk.
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