I am from scary girl to sad girl,
War paint to house paint.
From 12-hour days to 12-hour naps
From 11:11 to…wait, am or pm?
I am from childhood insomnia –
Kids in the Hall and Designing Women in the middle of the night,
From nightmares and visions and “normal little girls are happy.”
From violence and creeps and sick and sad,
To no and now and will.
Bad news to clown shoes,
Three miles of rough road walking down the street.
I am from smudged makeup and tears of laughter,
Zippo lighters and pocket knives.
From plastic bracelets and impractical shoes, trinkets and tape.
From love: unromantic, unflattering, reluctant, resentful.
Openness and frankness and salt in the wound.
From foster husbands and borrowed fathers, psychic mothers-in-law:
Oh honey, you hang on.
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My people come from loud places and big feelings,
Holes punched in walls, notes passed through bars, and whispers over fences.
They come from quiet, resigned, resilient rage.
My people are from Siberian Spleen and Italian Ire.
They wear a lot of eyeliner and too much of something;
Too much black or heels or hair or none of your business.
My people come from little loves and love of little
Needing nothing and giving everything and seeing each thing just as it is.
My people are just so.
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It’s nice to love and be loved but it’s better
to know what you can know.
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My home is the tension in the corner of my mother’s mouth,
And knowing that only I know what it means.
The change in her breathing that says she’s asleep
And carefully selected gifs sent on the hardest days.
My home is a feral cat with a pink heart-shaped nose
that feasts on the souls of the damned.
It’s her little form in the corner of the deck at night;
Her stillness, her silence, her distance.
My home is a swarm of ladybugs, a pair of doves, and a leopard slug.
Home is singing old songs to Henry’s ghost and being afraid of the basement,
Bare feet on warm pine boards, two big trees, not an inch of wasted space.