I’m from a boxy brick corner house with vines scaling the exterior,

from a neighborhood of tainted windows reinforced by iron bars,

from a community that steals unattended belongings.

I’m from a street corner where collaborating yells and spinning tires disallowed silence,

from an area where no deadbolt could be left unturned before going to school,

from a street my mother didn’t want me roaming alone.

I’m from a corner house who’s key tied around my wrist to make sure my brother and I made it inside after school,

from a house who’s shrubs nurtured the ripest raspberries,

from a house where we ate dinner on the front doorstep.

I’m from cracked sidewalks where I learned to ride a bike,

from potholes which sprung my brother from his bike, breaking his arm,

from an unattended neighborhood which nobody looked after.

I’m from a neighborhood beside the city,

from an area where the people travel without a car,

from a city I couldn’t get enough of.

I’m from a neighborhood I stood too young to comprehend,

from a community friends haven’t made it out of,

from a boxy, brick corner house where strangers would sell drugs when we weren’t home.