I am from drooping ceilings, caving in under the weight of half-truths and broken promises.
I am from a house, but not a home. A building filled with strangers that share the same name. I am from the comfort of streetlights guiding me away.
I am from cultures that are not my own. The smell of spices wrapping me in a warm embrace. The language of my town teaching me words that my soul could not find. I am from water, not from blood.
I am from park benches next to tall oak trees. In this spot, I learned to love myself. Familiarity found in the scent of flowers, in the banter of squirrels, in the laughs of neighborhood children. I am from the strong branches that taught me resilience.
I am from rhythmic monitor beeping and wailing siren cries. My home a box on wheels, both bassinet and hearse. My insides overflowing with stories of lives saved and lives lost. I am from the tears shed on my shoulder.
I am from cancer. Cool rags wiped over pale foreheads. A curse coursing through her bones and finding home within my cells. My body has become inflamed from housing the pain of generations. I am from poison swallowed in hopes it will help.
I am from ghosts. I am from still-frame photographs preserving memories of warm smiles. I am from memorial services and funeral homes. Tattoos of handwriting and inside jokes dancing across my skin. I am from the mosaic of funeral cards above my bed.
I am from all of this and more. I am from hushed whispers. I am from running. I am from the ghosts that haunt my home. I am from the dirt pouring out of broken flowerpots. I am from the voice that has grown strong deep within my bones. I am from me.
One thought on “Kayla Rose”
I love it! A lot of fabulous lines:
“I am from a house, but not a home. A building filled with strangers that share the same name.”…
“My home a box on wheels, both bassinet and hearse.” What an evocative image.
And that stanza before last, “I am from ghost” really got to me.