I am from a silent secluded town warmly

wrapped in corn fields.
From playing hide and seek with neighborhood

kids.
And from older boys who couldn’t keep

their hands to themselves.

I am from a fake faced family that only
looks perfect in public.
A family of gossip, lies and fights

behind closed doors.

I am from an anger ridden, never there

for me father.
Which whom I refuse to call dad.
I am from an attention seeking, always worried

about appearances mother.
Who forgets that I exist and never seems to care.
I am from three older sisters who made me fend

for myself, and used to being alone.

I am from thoughts of cold darkness, and death

that loathingly lingers just beyond the brink of light.
From blades that have come to know me over the
years.
I am from hurtful whispers about my scars.
From boys who have broken my heart because
of them.
And from my only comfort of music and the

classical creations of Lord Alfred Tennyson

I am from teachers who care, but don’t

really help.
From being an outcast in my own home.
And from a grandfather who believes that
people like me don’t deserve to live.
But I am also from a great grandmother who

loves me for who I am without
judgment.

I am from recovering on my own,

when everyone is beating
me down.
From one amazing, loving, supportive

friend who always has my back

and countless teachers who have

helped me in the end.
Now I am from plans of my future and

and hopes of tomorrow.
And from who I will be when I get there