I wish I wasn’t from the lonely house on top of the hill, 

only leading back to broken houses in the shadows, not broken on the outside.

I wish I wasn’t from the yells and screams through walls at night,

hoping the days would soon stop, yet I could never sleep. 

I wish I wasn’t from a mother who chose a drink over her family.

I wish I wasn’t from a Band-Aid that can’t cover the wounds of things kids shout at me,

or whisper under their breath, yet I still hear each word they mutter.

I wish I wasn’t from a moving truck,

one house to another, the last foregin now.

I wish I wasn’t from a lady with papers and a clipboard writing down each of my feelings. 

I wish I wasn’t from the lonely lunches,

or the lonely days, yet the room packed.

I wish I wasn’t from the emptiness filling my head, 

hoping one day my pain will end. 

But, I am. 

I am from a busy house on the corner, 

quiet and quaint, with the echoes of cars driving past in the dead of night.

I am from the leaves in fall,

orange, yellow, and red; each different from others, yet fallen to the ground.

I am from a recovering mother who chooses her family over a drink.

I am from the screams of the wind at night, 

knowing they aren’t coming from upstairs, yet I’m still up all night.

I am from my family and friends, 

to build me up, no matter how many times I am broken down.

I am from the strength of making it to tomorrow, in a world of pain. 

I am from a world of conversation,

no matter how silent it may feel, yet I still feel alone. 

I’m from recovery and life,

knowing I’ll be okay one day, life gets tough. 

But, it’ll be alright.