I was a barefoot
Mismatched child.
My hands were grubby and calloused,
My legs were scratched from the bracken
In the tall grass.

I grew slipping between the cracks,
Carefully avoiding the hot concrete,
Thirstily drinking up the rain and sunlight.

I’m not afraid of surviving,
I’m good at surviving.

My legs grew,
And my jeans didn't.
My feet didn't fit their shoes,
And I recall hiding food
so no one else could take it from me.

Weeds are not afraid to grow,
The only chance you get
Is the ones you make.