I want to go home.

We live at home, mom tells me, this is home.

But she does not know that home is the willow tree that I crawl under when my heart is too heavy for my body, my grass-stained knees now offering company to my tear-stained cheeks.

She will never understand that home is the thunderstorm that I dance barefoot in, the wet pavement my stage, the lightning my spotlight, the thunder screaming “Encore!”

The first time I put on makeup was in my backyard, hidden in a cluster of raspberry bushes. I squeezed one of the delicate berries between my index finger and my thumb, and I painted my cheeks with the vibrant red juice in a way that only a 6-year-old could.

The Earth acknowledged my beauty.

She nested twigs in my hair as barrettes, and she painted my nails a deep mahogany.

My mom was horrified when she saw me.

But I had never felt so beautiful before.

I had never felt so at home.