growing place

here, will always be my growing place.

the house with the white picket fence,

and the room with mauve-painted walls

they used to be pink but then I ‘grew up’.

but prickling skin and one dry tongue later,

I’m not sure how much more I can grow.

these walls are feeling a lot more like walls as

I tangle like roots in a too-small flower pot.

cramped and contorted, there’s a giant in my chest,

crouched and clawing at my insides, rattling

my rib cage like the bones are a cell, tortured

from hearing the same song so many times.

one day I will grow into someplace, where I can

take up more space, that will fit the giant in my chest.

but right now her skull might crack the ceiling

if she stood up too tall, so I can’t let her out (sorry).

my feet don’t touch the ground here anymore.

gravity’s grip isn’t strong enough to hold me

as I drift, I drift… adrift I exist inconsequentially –

I’m not making footprints here anymore.

my heart is still here, at home, settled and

comfortable and warm, awoken each morning

by a soft knock at my door, but in dreams I reach

for bigger hands, to pull me into something more.

there is a place for me – a new growing place,

where I will start on a windowsill so I get enough sun.

I have dreams waiting outside the turn of a doorknob,

I just have to find the key. I know there is a place for me –

not just somewhere I live, but somewhere that’s mine.