I am from a room made up of past photographs, from the prom t-shirt and Jones’ bottles.
I am from the house of lonely nights.
Of the big oak tree that never dies, the lilac bush that had to be left behind, and the roses that once meant everything.
I’m from Chinese food on Christmas Eve and tall people.
From a long line of alcoholics and people who walk out.
I’m from a place where abuse meant they cared and where bi-polar moods were normal.
From the promises of always being together and where New Jersey will always be home to me.
I’m from where every Sunday we went to church, to eventually not going at all.
I’m from stubborn Czechoslovakians and their food to Thanksgiving feasts.
From all those years of dance taken away from me and everything going to waste.
The ones who only cared about themselves.
I am from the boxes of photographs kept in the attic, the frames lined on the living room tables of people who left and faces with emotions hidden deep within.
I am from hurt.
