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The trash bag
A black trash bag.
That’s what they give you
when you leave a foster home.
Not a suitcase.
Not a duffel.
Not a backpack.
An empty trash bag.
You learn quickly what that means.
A trash bag rips easily.
Trash is meant to be thrown away.
Trash is temporary.
Trash doesn’t belong anywhere for long.
Some kids carry their whole childhood
in a black plastic bag.
Gripping onto the plastic with their hands,
tight with all of their possessions.
Their pain, drawings,
Clothes, school papers,
a stuffed animal that's missing an eye.
The only things they can call their own —
all stuffed into something made for garbage.
And every move,
every goodbye,
every new living room
feels like someone’s telling you
that you’re disposable too.
A trash bag doesn’t hug you back.
It doesn’t stay when you cry.
It doesn’t promise tomorrow.
It just holds what’s left of you
until the next placement decides
if they want to keep you.
