I am from black chipped nail polish
And hand me down flannels
I am from Saturday morning flapjacks
And car rides with no destinations
I am from secret kisses in the backseat
And the soft tune of a Fleetwood Mac vinyl
I am from open mics and spilling my guts through poetry
And cigarette burns on second hand couches
I am from the strong aroma of incense and cheap cologne
And scattered ashtrays
I am from sweaty strangers laying around my house
And broken guitar strings
I am from the sweet smell of a cigar and a new book
And the hum of my old man's Volkswagens engine
I am from being tortured by my own head and past
and showing it through short bitten nails and blackened lungs