I am from soap bars unnoticed in supermarket aisles, from Lux and artificial jasmine fragrances.

I am from ****** motels, suspicion strong in the air; far from the warmth of toasty family cottages.

I am from the bouquet of extravagant roses, the dead white one within the reds.

I am from the cholesterol-inducing pizza nights and sharp senses for both the culinary and your lies, from a sinner and an angel and the brave and just the plain stupid.

I am from the self-deprecating and the highly-sensitive.

From you’ll never be able to climb a tree and you’ll never be able to find another me.

I am from the inverted views of the crescent and the star, on my knees waiting to turn back.

I am from the city of the creatively uncreative and its posers and poseurs, plain bread and steamed rice served on China plates painstakingly crafted.

From the not-so-happy ending of mom and dad’s love story, the blood boiling and the tears rolling.

I am from the well-kept, well-preserved antique shelves hidden under our everyday closets; a ***** little secret, secretly waiting to be saved.