What She Drew

On my kitchen table,

the house she drew:

a door that swallowed

half the front,

windows like afterthoughts,

a roof that couldn't decide

what angle meant home.

The purple crayon so dark

it gouged the paper,

bled through to the back,

and where she ran out of room,

she kept going anyway,

one long line off the edge,

into the margin, unstoppable.

I asked her why the door

was so big.

She looked at me the way

you look at someone

who's asked a stupid question,

and said: because I want to go in.

As if it were that simple.

As if I hadn't spent years

drawing myself smaller,

fitting into spaces

other people decided,

learning to knock before entering

rooms in my own life.

She handed me the picture

like it was nothing,

like she hadn't just

rewritten my understanding

of what it means

to take up space.