Growing Up

Across the road, there was a playground.
In our short time there I never crossed it myself.
I clung to her as we moved across town
Shivered close before the dining room fireplace.

In the next move across our small town
I had a princess bed at eleven.
Closed in by her desire for me to cling.
It was all I knew to do, it was home.

The park was far away now, lost to me.
A home—small and clean trapped in a dream.
I did not fit there, could not go back there.

My princess bed broke, curtains shredded.
And I grew—no longer did I cling.