Where she's from is the dry deserts of Texas,

where greenery are for them fancy, nice folk down the ways,

where you were plopped in the mud and were told, "have fun".

The rich damp smell of the earth filled her tiny nostrils,

like an exotic spice from Asia.

She's from crumpling up on the Lazy Boy, frozen with terror,

matching that of a thousand Steven King Novels.

Frozen with the very thought of...

"was that Stripes hand that rocked my chair?"

Where she's from is her best friend struts down the halls 

and she watches with a surgeon's precision,

trying to watch her every move,

should she need to fill her place one day.

She's from the front of the church,

slowly walking to the alter,

The stained glass flashes and shimmers

bathing the room in light,

her own rainbow to fly over.