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I am from the worn-down pages of fairytales
And the cobweb dust in ceiling corners.
I am from street-red lipstick in a plastic tube,
And from highways chasing the horizon behind me.
I am from half-filled notebooks
And deep, rough voices singing me love songs from a broken radio.
I am from competitions and black belts and bruised skin.
I am from pennies saved in a jar
And from ink staining my fingers.
I am from visions of fame and lonely graves.
I am from ancient stones and knights in shining armor.
I am from hot water burns across my body.
I am from teasing last year’s English teacher
And thanking God he can take a joke and give one in turn.
I am from silence.
I am from faked smiles and blistered tongues.
I am from wearing bizarre clothes
And from laughing too hard to prove my existance.
I am from camoflage.
I am from a drained ink pen and drowning in my own words.
I am from a bottle of red hair dye
Hidden since Christmas.
I am from rainy days,
And from dreams of bridges I haven’t crossed.
I am from dreams of being a movie star.
I am from the almost daily quote, “Everybody wants to be a pop star.”
I am from constant sneers
And arguments that bring down the roof.
I come from imaginary friends.