where i'm from

I am from cracked concrete and quiet Suburban streets,
From saturday morning cartoons to worry free bike rides.
I am from “I’ll quit tomorrow,”
The smoke from a cheap cigarette.
From Autumn leaves crunching on a sidewalk beneath size 4 feet
To blocking out verses with crayons in church.
I am from my mother’s pain pills that no longer cure
And winter coats that still elicit a “burr.”
I’m from “Ghostbusters” and a little sponge under the sea
To the remnants of an American dream.
From shopping carts and 2-for-1 specials
To mallrats and chain restaurants that stretch across
The entirety of one half of the midwest.

I’m from nervous habits and standardized tests.
From my father’s sunken chest and head full of mystery
“Why are you so quiet?” to “you should smile more.”
I’m from plastic christmas trees and the static on a TV screen,
To “Mr. Brightside” and once being scared of the crypt skeletons in “Haunted Mansion”
To now watching the apocalypse unfold in pixels for kicks.
I’m from sunnier days and a mouth tasting bitter from spoonfuls of caustic wit,
From distant guns, finger guns and a house built in the 70's,
before the threat of bombs could collapse it.
From ash trays, a smoky back porch, rusted playground swing sets.  
to staring at flat lands, power lines, half-abandoned strip malls out a blurry car window.
Insomniacs with prescription pill/cough syrup vices, bodies (brains) that have always been sick
to medicated chap stick, NyQuil, can't call it quits.
Doomed to spend another night alone even with glossy lips,
Mascara dripping, sweet/skinny as pixy sticks.
Never gonna be pretty enough under fluorescent lights, pull another trick.

The stitches on my mother's head, can't get out of bed,
body's tangled in metaphorical (literal) sheets.
to Monty Python, 90's sitcoms, Kubrick on repeat
“Science fiction” keeping self-perpetuating sadness sounding so sweet,
never been kissed, "what have i missed?"
a ghost waiting to exist,
a fighting heart (falling apart), small wrists won't translate resilience,
“Skins” can’t make my body drain of led (purgatory dread),
routines won't be broken, risk is not welcome, heaven is bled,    
can't get out of my head, better off dead, better
learn to look on the bright side of life.
first world, privileged boredom might kill me
and i am from that knife.
this is what i call home.
this is what i'm made of.
this is where i'm from.