I look just like you.
If I never said, you’d never know.
I wear clean clothes,
Listen to pop music,
Color pictures on my cell phone,
Prefer Fuji apples to Opal,
Voted in the last election,
Wonder why the Kardashians still have a show.
I even attend school;
I’m a sophomore.

I have a mom,
A car,
A 3.2 GPA.
I have a name.
I don’t have a home.
Yeah. Gasp, right?
But, but you look so normal!
I am. I’m normal. A normal, 20-year-old girl.
I just don’t have a home.

No, I’m not transgender,
And my daddy didn’t sell me
Into sexual slavery.
But damn straight we should
Care about those folks
And help them out!
Nah, I’m a lot luckier.
I mean, yeah, I’m a lesbian, but my
Mom didn’t care too much.
When I turned eighteen, child support just stopped
And social services started docking her checks.
She cried when she asked me to leave.
My older sister took me in for a bit,
But when her boyfriend started beating her up,
I just… left.

I have a job, you know.
I use my sister’s address.
I wait tables.
I buy clothes and make-up at Walmart.
Sometimes, I save enough for a motel room.
Other times, I crash at friends’.
Occasionally, I’ll lay the seat down
In my car and snooze.

I bathe regularly. I smell fine. I eat okay.
The only cardboard sign
I’ve ever held
Advertised a middle school car wash.
I even dated a sweet girl for a few months.
I sneaked into her dorm room a few times,
Until her roommate ratted us out.

I probably sit right next to you in College Algebra
Or Psychology.
I’m your group partner,
Your fry-wielding server,
The person who passes you
On the freeway.

I’m the bogeywoman
Who keeps so many clutching their
Blankets and politics
As tightly as possible
To their chests.