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from lackluster midwestern glamor
I’m from raucous games of tag in a sprawling backyard
from autumn leaves down the back of my shirt
and my brothers’ sunshine laughter as I chase them for revenge.
I’m from family football games every Thanksgiving
from my gangly uncle’s war cry as he hikes me under his arm
and races to the sweet taste of a touchdown.
I’m from cannonball contests in the lake until the chime of the dinner bell
from soggy towels draped over dining room chairs
and rolled up newspaper thwacking me in the head
for ruining my grandmother’s antique wood.
I’m from a desperate “Please call me Elle”
from giving therapy a second chance to mold my new beginning
and the tears of my mother as I learn to stop splitting myself open.
I’m from the only green eyes in my family, like dim-lit emeralds
from feeling unique instead of icy isolation
and grasping confidence after years of soul-searching.
I’m from notebooks filled cover to cover in curling blue ink
from poems and vignettes to filter chaotic feelings
and assuring my momma that no they aren’t all sad,
there is no need to cry.
I’m from believing lies about my best friend
from placing blame on him when it belonged elsewhere
and trying so hard to learn from my mistakes.
I’m from words flying like knives, hitting every target
from never learning conflict resolution
and a ping-pong game of hurt.
I’m from rediscovering best friendship in his basement
from Chinese take out and team-race Mario Kart
and belly-laughing until we end up on the ground
tangled in lumps and heaps.
I’m from backstabbing and betrayal
from high school drama tearing apart my ribcage
and a red-eyed monster taking residence in my belly.
I’m from haunting memories at every turn
from echocardiograms, hollow loneliness
and wilting sunflowers masked by the stench of the hospital.
I’m from wishing people weren’t so touch and go
from praying the moon wouldn’t push-pull everyone like the tides
and discovering that some people are the exception
that the people who matter always stick around.
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