I am taller but younger, with
roots that crawl down deep and branches brandished as light sabers.

I’m from waking at sunrise, with
bright smiles,
and tired eyes.

I am feminine or masculine,
or somewhere in between.

I’m from 5 o’clock car rides,
legs cramped and crowded,
stuck between suitcase and sister.

I am from Friday nights and breakfast at ten PM,
jokes that seem funnier with people who think identically.

I’m from paintbrushes and guitars,
sloppy sketches and scribbles,
and memorized lines from The Princess Bride.

I am from busy, burdened bookshelves,
half-written songs and dusty piano keys.

I’m from cluttered counters,
littered with tissues,
strained with broken lipstick.

I am from music that fills the room,
seeping through the walls.

I’m from cracked lips on cold reeds.
sore throats after five hours and
playing until my breath releases.

I am from radical feminism,
eloquent arguments against atrocities.

I’m from Eagles and Beatles,
Tolkien and Lewis,
Monet and Van Gogh and Renoir.

I am taller but younger,
and I will never stop growing.