wrinkled fingers rub with rough green and yellow sponges
in the white sink that is marred with gashes and brown stains
(never could quite get it clean)
standing in the patch of floor
that is bare of the ugly, tiny squared cardboard and plastic.

that sink seems too low to me now
the edge of it no longer meets the same place when i lean into it
it seems so
small
the watermark on my shirt
from washing the dinner dishes every night
at 2am
would not be where it was
for 18 years of my life

i have outgrown that sink
and the smell of that house
and the creak of the stairs that i stumbled up then
because they were too tall
and fall down now
because they are too short

i outgrew my mother and father's bed
which is only my mother's now
my four siblings and i
would no longer all fit
to snuggle against the warm fleece of her sweater

i am too big.
too big for many things.
too big to listen to fights and be silent
too big to slam doors in my mother's face
too big to grab her and keep her from leaving
i am too big
and she is too small
everything that was once mine
that she owns
i have
outgrown

i live in a big girl house now.
mother said i would understand
when i was older
i wish i didn't