I am from Lysol,
tears, and resentment.
I am from the bottles hidden in my father’s closet,
blood stains that wouldn’t come out of the carpet.
I am from pine needles and the roaches in my mother’s ash tray, next to the pills she didn’t really need.
I am from stale bread and tap water,
from uneasy strangers and police sirens.
I am from the ones who gave me fear
And the ones who gave me hope, however temporary,
From profanity and “it’s your fault!”
I am from whispered prayers of desperation.
I’m from divorce and poverty,
From secrets and bystanders who look the other way.
I am from self loathing and fear of the world.
I’m from anger,
from rash words and sharp tongues, from holes in the walls.
I am from all of these things that made me strong,
These things that broke my heart, the pieces swelling and leaking the love I thought no one wanted. I am from survival,
And a God who never let go of my hand.