I am from a house of sound, 

from small guitars left abandoned and a melodic voice that wasn’t.

I am from the notes of laughter bouncing against the walls,

the calls of raised voices in anger, the whispers of apologies.

I am from empty dinner tables and the encompassing warmth of Dad’s cooking.

From busy suburbs and tranquil libraries and constantly moving. 

From the used sketchbooks, the slightly empty journals, 

and the colorful painted canvases.

I am from the expectations to be something I’m not 

and being controlled by puppet’s strings. 

From “Fix your hair!” and “Keep your grades up!”.

I'm from certificates and medals that at the end of the day will never be enough,

and from childhood days of being treated like a trophy settled alongside them.

From names that are not my own,

batting against my insecurities.

I am from the wisdom of an owl, the sight of a slightly overbearing hawk, 

and the protectiveness of being the oldest sibling. 

I am from computer keys clacking against calloused fingers, a broken spine that will never heal (even after almost ten years), and late night Discord conversations. 

From hand-hearts and echoing cat meows and lighthearted name calling.

I’m from fetching items, following orders, and rebuttals I only have the courage to utter within my mind.

I do not own very many memoirs.

The few letters I have in my possession 

are scattered within a hand-me-down oak desk.

The leather-covered album with childish engravings

is a time capsule to a time forever lost.

Few are of enough significance to be revealed.

None are purely myself.