I’m from the cul-de-sac where puddles don’t dry,
from the palm leaf that fell from a sky that doesn’t lie;
I’m from the bow that hums when the heater kicks on,
from the arrows I never loosed, just dreamed had gone;

I’m from the drain that breathes under turquoise light,
from daring my reflection to blink first at night;
I’m from Mom’s cracked mug that smells like cloves,
from Dad’s half-built shelf and his half-told jokes;

I’m from messages sent at 3:04,
from reading them back like confessions or lore;
I’m from the frog in the gutter that sang in the rain,
from the sidewalk chalk spelling my old nickname;

I’m from Tiana framed between thumbtacks and tape,
from Anika’s autograph looping like a secret escape;
I’m from the bus stop where the lamp hums loud,
from counting how many moths make a crowd;

I’m from the place where no one says “stay”,
from the voice that fills the silence before it decays;
I’m from the night I mistook fog for a ghost,
from learning that echoes tell truths the loudest voice won’t;

I’m from chlorine-stung eyes and the fear of the deep,
from a dream where the pool drain whispered in sleep;
I’m from my neighbor’s cat who stares like she knows,
from the cracked snow globe still making snow;

I’m from notebooks of words I meant to say,
from eraser dust that still spells my name halfway;
I’m from ceiling-fan shadows that count my sins,
from tracing my breath on the cold within;

I’m from the clock that skips the number four,
from a knock that came once and nevermore;
I’m from the promise to stay when I wanted to run,
from the soft hum of streetlights impersonating the sun;

I’m from the rain that plays piano on tin,
from knocking over the art room’s trash bin;
I’m from the attic where nothing’s been sold,
from jars of air labeled Young and Old;

I’m from the phone that rings when only Joyce is there,
from answering anyway just to prove I care;
I’m from the photo booth strip where my eyes are closed,
from the second shot where I almost look whole;

I’m from the words I rehearse before sleep,
from the small forgivenesses I never keep;
I’m from the streetlight that flickers when I pass,
from believing it’s trying to tell me “at last”;

I’m from nostalgic aesthetics that now scream “liminal!”,
from forty-five whole seconds on that goddamn bull;
I’m from constantly yapping ‘til the day is done,
and now from learning that silence is NOT where I’m from.

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Author’s note: “Where I’m From” was originally a poem by George Ella Lyon. I have made my own version before (which can be accessed here); however, for this assignment, it was for my “Intro to Fiction Writing” course, so I didn’t think that I should just reproduce my own. It had to be fictional, whereas mine is truthful and about me. So what I did is imagine a new, fictional person, and write what their “Where I’m From” would be. I did insert a bit of prose that applies to me as well, but it is mostly fictional.