At seven, I was the girl in tattered sneakers
and worn-out jeans listening to records and
staring out my bedroom window to where below,
I could see my neighbor and her friends:
Her 14th birthday and lights hung from
the trees, citronella burned and everyone
sang along to Duran Duran on the radio.
I, alone in my room, dreamed of having
the freedom to let people in but settled
for my oil paints and canvas instead.
At 14, I poured myself into literature,
dreamed of a day when I'd have my own
place, my own love, my own life.
On my headphones, The Ramones
blared as I stared up from the
floor into the ceiling light.
At 21, I watched University artists gather
in flocks like crows, dressed in black
and powdered faces. I saw them
laugh, kiss, create on the concrete
under the trees.
28 found me in another city for the second
time and discovering my hit-or-miss style.
And now, at 36, I am not so different:
Often looking in from the outside,
often fumbling.
