written sometime after 2020 and before 2023, during a trauma-based therapy course.
where i'm from...is broken.
because i've filled it with too many things i would soon learn to leave behind. once heavy in weight, now only made so by lessons + the sorrows they've created.
where i'm from...is a conglomerate
of traditions, languages + antics picked up from pit stops
that i've claimed as my own in an attempt to belong, if even for a moment.
the watch worn inwards, the pen held in that particular way, the making of a third culture.
where i'm from...believes in nothing
because it can't + wouldn't want to if it could.
it is the only constant in the endless change + running away,
though it's starting to breakdown into a useless nothing.
where i'm from...is irreparable now
though the acceptance of having written that comes from somewhere
far from despondence, as does the acknowledgement
that it was never a town, a community, a house, a family.
i am from my tired hands + the cardboard box I managed for so many years to keep
+ never give up on despite
their constant relocation + over-layerings of the wrong kinds of tape.
where i'm from...though atypical,
will always be enough.
