I am from sleepless nights,

from Diet Coke,

and from endless stacks of books.

I am from the pine trees,

bare feet toughened by the forest floor,

and from the lingering smell of chlorine,

fingers shriveled like a candy wrapper lost in a back pocket.

I am from the bristles of a paintbrush

and from scattered eraser shavings,

for I make no mistake twice.

I am from ticket stubs, postcards, and Polaroids.

I am from the ancient scribblings of poets,

who are cherished friends.

I am from late night joyrides,

from spontaneous trips to Wawa,

and from the back of a pickup truck,

where the ride is smoother than you would imagine.

I am from scattered family

and from battles with unknown aggressors.

I am from movies at midnight,

rants about the universe and it’s hypocrisy,

and from monthly game nights,

where the house never wins.

I am from Tchaikovsky

and from classic rock at volumes too high.

I am from the earthworms in the backyard, the prancing deer in the forest,

and from the birds circling the night sky.