I am from the blood gushing on the cold December snow.
I am from screams and tears that would stop when my father came home.
I am from the group homes of,
Oshkosh and Omro,
To Dar boy and Shiocton
Then back home.
I am from the cement mattress and slop that was always cold.
I am from the unfair coldness of my mothers soul,
The combined 30 stitches down my leg lying in the dry silent night of July,
Hopping to the closest building knowing I need a hospital.
But I am also from the smiles and laughter that started when I came home.


From the homemade chicken dumpling soup that my sister had waiting at home.
I am from many places none that I can call home
from sledding at garbage hill to skiing at Nordic mountain.
The diving bored at Pollock pool and the beaches of Miami.
The busy streets of New York to the huge cafes in Baltimore
From the palm trees in Orlando to the cold streets of Milwaukee.

I am from a family of many struggles to a family who helps each other grow.
I am from “treat each other how you want to be treated” to “don’t disrespect your elders”
I am from a world that’s hard to understand.
But in the end, I’m from
Myself.