I leave a star-shaped nightlight I never turn on anymore
plugged into the dusty
outlet in my wall.  Children’s books I haven’t read for years
fill the shelf beside my bed.  Dolls I haven’t played with since
grade school sit in the corner, staring
at me as I live every day without 
them.  I’ve spent hours picking up those princess dolls, cataloging memories we share, analyzing their sentimental worth,
wondering if they’d be better off waiting
in a Goodwill for some little kid who really wants
them.  But I keep them here anyway, hoarding a past
I can’t bear to give away.  

For the first time in my life, part of me wants to grow up,
to leave home, to be free, to be an independent woman, not a girl
who still must ask her parents’ permission to leave the house.
I want to purge my room of the relics that chain 
me to childhood, to make myself anew,
but something in me refuses to let me surrender those memories.
The part of me that wants to throw a tea party on a Dollar Tree blanket
and invite all her dolls,
the part of me that longs to convince my mother
to read my sister and me the longest story
on my shelf so we can stay up
past our bedtime,
the part of me that still wants to turn on that nightlight,
so when I wake in the middle of the night,
I can see the light 
and know that everything is going to be okay.