I am from a plain, tall, brick house nestled in a row of others like it.

From a place where aged, broken, mustard yellow cornfields stretch across the Earth.

From smoldering cookouts with the neighbors, inhaling the smoky scent of the grill.

I am from a shimmering creek that held turtles waiting to be caught by two young girls.

A girl filled with hope.

I am from scrapes and bruised knees, from a father who squeezed my hand while he taught me resilience.

From a mother who gave up her job in order to give me the finest childhood she could.

I am from fragrant, mysterious nights around a crackling bonfire, from the glow on my friend’s faces after telling an alluring story.

I am from a group of inferior girls weighted down with an appalling secret

I am from a phone call that changed my world—

From the horrified look on my Dad’s face as the secret came out.

I am from the pain that lurks in our family on the occasion the subject comes up.

I am from locking that ache in a box, which I never visit.

I am now from a contemporary, charming, and abundantly colder place.

A place that despite the cold, holds more warmth than the old place ever could.

A place where bliss is defined as driving around town with friends on highway sixteen, blasting Post Malone.

From singing his songs at the top of our lungs, no matter how awful it sounded.

I am from a place where nights turn into mornings with friends,

Where rich, dark, delicious coffee brings you back to Earth in the morning.

From a place full of opportunity to dream.

I am from a childhood that taught me pain, resilience, and kindness.

And I am still a girl filled with hope.