I'm from bruises
From fear and anger.
I'm from the backs of her hands
That I thought I deserved.
I'm from a life no child warrants.

I'm from tattered clothing
From malnutrition and neglect.
I'm from a heart
Ripped at every edge
Frayed at every seam.

I'm from "put up or shut up"
Where children are neither
Meant to be seen nor heard.

Memories held together by
The binding of a notebook.
I'm not from there,
At least not anymore.

Now I'm from stethoscopes,
From scrubs and white shoes.
I'm from the first breath of a newborn baby
To the last breath of a dying lady.

I'm from EKG lines that continue
To pulsate with each contraction
Of a bruised and battered heart no more.

I'm from a world where I'm not judged
By where I'm from
But where I've gone
And what I've become.