its difficult to pinpoint the catalyst 

of change, tucked neatly between the graying pages 

of my childhood and adolescence

an autumn of sorts- outside colors fade dull,

bare bones exposed to harsh elements like

high school cafeterias and sneering

boyfriends whose love stings more than

scraping knees on cement.

 

no matter how rigid my outsides 

became i always craved a soft 

space, a safe getaway, to be lifted 

by strong arms into clouds;

the dispostion and reality of my childhood

was glaringly obvious when i could grasp

family dynamics and absentee parents,

harsh criticisms and things better left

swept under the proverbial rug.

 

i didnt grow when i was bruised at sixteen, 

i shrunk, into myself;

i didnt flourish when i was pregnant at seventeen,

i cried, curled into a knot,

coiled around the bed;

i didnt advance when death and grief hit at twenty one, 

i was lost, drowning in whiskey and 

tear stained boxes 

 

interalizing the disasters, somewhere between the red

pulsing veins and aching muscles

a motive bloomed, delicate as 

april dandelion buds; finally

i dreamt feverishly of possibilities, fascination

fixated on the future, once a terrifying threat,

now a freedom