Hello friends. Most people will tell you their names and ages in this segment. I however will say something different. I'm a lost soul. I have no place on Earth, I am insignificant. Yet I choose to live a life that matters. I choose to write stories to lift the spirits of others, as others have done before me. I write for pleasure, I write with a purpose. I write what I feel, and I write what I know. I never know where the path may lead me, but I know where I will end up.

I have no concept of time. Time is fickle. I know what I believe, and I know what can not be. I know who I am... do you know who you are?

“Where I am from” poem
I know I should jump at the words,
A chance to be creative
A chance to tell my story
Lie my mind tells me

Don’t mention the chaos
Don’t mention the screaming
mommy can you hear me? why are you screaming at me?
Or the yelling the chaos the crazy only mention the good
Good times remember the good

Lucy, they called me.
Lucy the Valiant, like in the book (there were always books).
The little girl who grew up too fast
{but no one ever asked why she grew up}
Donald was Edmund the Just
not so just your mind lies
Katherine was Susan, the Gentle
how many times had she hurt you? your mind asks
where was Peter, the one who was supposed to protect you? No one protected you.

Remember the good remember the good hide the bad
Be strong don’t show weakness be strong be what you’re supposed to be
Don’t disappoint me don’t be a fool get good grades be skinny be smart be kind be courageous but be feminine be this be that JUST STOP

ChaosDripDropBlood
Memories carved into skin because it’s the only place that’s real.
Abuse hidden in thoughts and words because bruises are too easily seen
And because that’s what is.
Handprints on the concrete sidewalk, imprints of a time when we were ignorant.
The grocery next door, giving us free food because we had sweet faces.

I am from a s h a t t e r e d home
broken

But I can’t say that
It’s not right.
I have to smile, pretend I was a wealthy White child.
I grew up well. I ate turkey on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and went to church every Sunday and I was perfectly fine.
I’m not supposed to remember the slamming doors (Daddy, where are you going? Why are you leaving? Are you coming back? Is it mommy leaving this time? For how long? I want you to come home. Can you stop fighting? I’ll hide in my room until you stop, please stop.)
Or the screaming or the fighting.

I should be normal. Happy.

Where am I from?
I don’t know.
I’m from somewhere.
I’m lost. Drifting.