My lips, my skin, the hum on my breath.
My beating chest, my insides and outsides, were all once only 15.
15 years of growing and moving and whispers and fractures and bruising and hurting and romanticising.
15 years of not knowing much else beyond the tired dirt road leading from our home town out onto the highway, lined with ghostly gum trees and train tracks and darkness.
At 15 my family and I were living in a quiet tiny country town with only the odd coal train roaring and clacking it's way through the vast empty quiet.