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.