I am from the scent of grime and feline mane, from the roaring voice, the stinging palm, and soft, cuffed, wrists of my begetter, which paralyzed my “blue sky” brain and watered the carpet with salty rain. I am from the black gaze and cold tone that threatened a child’s defeat and despair.

I am from the inflamed lovers, from the guardians who should have cherished their menage but rather misplaced its meaning. I am from the idols that unintentionally brainwashed me into believing that intimidation and shaming is the acceptable way to treat humans beings.

I am from the dark wooden bench I would wait on and predict my weekend in hell, from the scurrying of feet and the scrambling of anxious packing as if late for a flight. I am from the tears of fear and wrenching force making my feet barely able to step out of my personal heaven.

I am from the four damsels whom my father embraced and kissed just as he used to with my mother, from the moments the women were there for a year and then gone the next. I am from the recurring, heart-numbing confrontations in the kitchen, just as my parents once did.

I am from the closed white door where I imprisoned myself for my short moments of freedom, from the tears that watered the flowers on my bolster and the sheets that hid me from the monster under my bed. I am from breath holding silence, listening for the muffled footsteps approaching my cold chamber.

I am from healers who finally let me express my fear of defeat and despair in my broken “blue sky” brain, from the roaring voice, the stinging palm, and the once soft, cuffed wrists of my begetter. I am from the black gaze and cold toned speech that opened my eyes and, for the last time, watered the carpet with salty rain.