I’m from an old, crumbling apartment that always smells of bleach
I’m from cracked green-gray side walks that always smell like fish
I’m from summer road trips and matching pajamas at Christmas
I’m from long afternoons spent at a squat, red brick church
I’m from dusty play grounds with dirty slides and swings that always creaked I’m from rooms and rooms filled with story books, a tiny heaven for little me I’m from sunsets and beaches and the smell of sun screen
I’m from dandelions on side walk cracks and wishes on a shooting star
I’m from giant beds and warm blankets, paid with blood, sweat, and tears
I’m from body pillows a meter tall that look like cookies and cream ice cream I’m from hugs, warm and soft, filled with kind love
I’m from harsh words and stinging pain, filled with tough love
I’m from hugs and good night kisses
I’m from “Good morning, sleepy head”s and breath that smells like coffee
I’m from pecan pies from Han’s fed through my mother
I’m from carefully cut fruits after dinner, cut artfully, with love
I’m from dinners with fresh rice and spicy kimchi and soup that was always scalding hot
I’m from home cooked meals and freshly packed lunch boxes
I’m from endless shouts of “Umma” and responses that always come a full minute late
I’m from annoyed screams of “Dam” and “Sis” and gleeful shrieks of “Appa”
I’m from countless bed time stories and entire books memorized
I’m from little kid stories with fake deer and foxes and magical plants
I’m from secret stashes of sweets under the bed, shared beneath the covers
I’m from secret codes and meeting places and inside jokes to top
I’m from days spent watching anime with Dam then watching edits with my father
I’m from nights spent reading with a flash light, when I was supposed to be sound asleep
I’m from doctors and professors and teachers and soldiers and business men I’m from them, but I’m not them
I’m a reader, a writer, a volleyballer, a flutist, an a fantasy lover I’m me.
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