I’m from “Can I see your ouchie”

when Carlye scraped her knee

I’m from saying farewell to the walls, the carpet, the rooms

To a new and mountainous hill,

buckets of sweat by the top

I’m from the prison of khaki pants and collared shirts

The belligerent betrayal of a man I trusted,

we all trusted

An evil act that ended with running tears and swollen eyes

He gave his heart to God…

I’m from crying myself to sleep, barely breathing

The malevolent girls treating me like dirt

“Do I deserve this?”

The answer not what I longed to hear

I’m from chatting with the clouds,

reasonably repeating, “Why me….”

I’m from behind my back,

from friends I thought had an ounce of love for me.

Leaving Spanish to sob in the stalls

I’m from avoiding those manipulative mirrors…

staring back at me and laughing, loathing

I’m from class clowns calling me midget,

for I am and always will be (the height of a child)

I’m from sparks of creativity and

whims to scatter my thoughts in forms of art

Brush performing a dance recital on the canvas

Pencil running laps down the page

I’m from smeared sauce and cheese drizzled on.

The barely busy business;

the minimum-wage job that paid me love and friendships

I’m from my dreams

Gondolas, gentle serenading, gazing at the beauty

Asking my patients, “Can I see your ouchie?”