I am...

I am from a garden of secret roses and glass swans;
penciled on eyebrows and manatees
innocently broken rules


Marked by salty paper and dried out pens,
I am from entire landfills of forgotten art
and armfuls of it fished from the trash


I am from eating dinner with my best friends
smiling, laughing, and loving
only barely separated by a thin glowing screen


When I was younger I would blow out fires
my mother thought it was an open window
well, I am the wind.

This poem is about: 
My family


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