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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.

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