I am from a big red door
that could have been bigger.

I am from the dust bunny colony
under my bed.

I am from chipped nail polish
and hastily crimped hair.

From the nine O'clock curfew,
From the first-born throne.
The tripping, wandering, hands-out-in-the-dark, throne.

I am from the tall grass.
The kind that has no paths waded through it yet.

I am from the lost, the loud, the longing.