By Alba Navas
I come from thick fingertips with dirt-filled gaps
I come from walls so thick, you could hear a voice crack
I come from being the outsider no one dared to look at
I come from the aftershocks of honesty
But I grow from aching joints running past the finish line
I grow from glossy, droopy eyes, writing through the night
I grow from hearing “no” too many times
Where I grow from is more than where I come from
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