I'm from

I'm from the warm spring breezes and the biting autumn gusts through it

I'm from the sag of my couches, the foreigners of my speakers, and the songs of my radiators

I'm from Christine and Edward, and Louis, Elizabeth, and Gabriel, and even Cody and Zane

I'm from Sunday dinners

I'm from the promises not to tell mom

I'm from the ink soaked seats and the filth laden floors of a school bus

I'm from tying my hair back and licking mom's spoon

I'm from swimming in the knitted blankets of my father's back seat

I'm from the scraped knees, bruised elbows, and bumped heads that I donned

I'm from the gentle and all powerful hands of God

I'm from the denial and resistance of these things as well as the eventual acceptance of them