We used to measure ourselves by the day,
In our sibling scraps, in our homework,
Our jokes, and in the speed we ran.
On birthdays, the lines marked our height,
Creeping up the inside door frame
In pencil rungs of dates and names.
Those marks are still there, under that thick
Flashy beige we picked to sell
The house before we moved out.
But there’s no door frame here, nowhere
To brace your back, firm and secure,
No mother to lean over and draw the line
Above your head, for you to turn and check.
So we shout, as loud as we can,
In the writing and poetry we pen.
To embrace the light against the dark,
To measure ourselves again.