pot-plant girl

the walls are stretching away like
so many rolls of paper,
and paper doesn't speak.
i want to take crayons to the walls,
i want to draw whales and trees and 
laughter
all over your house.

i want to draw badly, so my whales
and dolphins
are laying on a blue brick
instead of racing through the sea.
i want to make everything
un-perfect,
but you'd take to the walls with
whitewash and 
sad eyes, and i'd be sorry.
so sorry.

i want to take my voice to you,
laughing or shouting or
anything
as long as it isn't apologising.
your home is a drug, 
still-making and cloying in the air.
outside is a myth.
inside is safe.

i have no place, no roots, no background.
i have a hole, but that
may just be the last shred of
rebellion in me
making the air in my lungs important.

once i thought i could stop the sea
and love without 
thought. 
once i thought the tooth fairy was real,
and sorry fixed mistakes
like scabs fixed scraped knees.
once, i thought i was different and new.
once,
we all were.

now i care about wars and
sleep in all day.
now i am used to discomfort and
compromises and promises.
now i am used to
breaking my word and leaving
my ideas by the roadside
of our sleepy days in.

now i have a wallet full of
numbers and "remember-me"s.
once, i had a wallet full of
love notes, 
and pressed flowers
now your models are broken,
the thin plastic snapped under
foot or pressure,
or maybe just your silence.
once you had colours and smiles and dreams.