"Seven years," was my mantra

when I first moved.

I don't belong here, and now

it's too late to belong there

   and I find these havens, in

     sanctuaries and trees and basement rooms

 

I have no childhood home,

     no more magic or discovery

is left

 

and I live and I love and I discover but I'll never stay, only

seven years

 

and after seven years

    of a house too empty for our family

   and schools I never wanted

 

                     I could choose my OWN city,

            somewhere north or east

                             (or both)

            with different accents

 

and a school I chose

(myself)

   for its connections and strange allure

      and the distinctive smell of academia wafting from the books

         contrasting with parties and ideas of physical daring

 

and maybe that's where I'll find it, what I found at nine years old

        (and I almost grasped it, it was so within reach)

                (but it wasn't my choice)

     and now the same thing could be holding back my choice, bottling my potential

            throwing it away for more wasted time

 

(maybe, this time, I'll conquer it)