Where I Am From
I am from musty pages and partly-formed words. I am from candy-smeared grins and childhood laughter—because only children laugh so loud. I am from the half-lit screen and boxed-in faces. I am from over-stuffed sandwiches and saltless soy beans—because salt, my little girl, will bite you back in its time. I am from a 1-2-3 square root exponent logarithm numbers-matter mind, and I am A-B-C letters words feelings stories. We are not what we are from.
I am from the quiet house and the quiet town and the “your life must be so easy.” I am from screams and apologies and we-still-love-each-other’s, so don’t you worry, honey, it’ll all be just fine. I am from the tears on my cheeks, not my own. I am from sentences strung together, always my own. I am from the ideas waiting to be realized and the stories begging to be told. I am from a shaky future dressed in pretty words. I am from explosions in the making and magic in the air. I am from sweet dreams and nightmares and life’s perilous in-between. I am from this story trapped between its covers.
I am waiting to be read.