I Am.
I am from spurred thunder on a hollow porch, from the sunset chasing cotton legs and midnight bkue second skin.
I am from shifting sands and chemical smoke, where the roots of the tree were not bent, but poisioned.
I am from unwrapping magic surrounded by the smell of wood smoke and hay.
From the sweet, sharp bite of glass. From the voice that cleared the hush of the dull halls and the uniform behind the door.
From a house which smelled of coffee and sleep but never incense. From a house built of logic and questions.
I am from where the earth scrapes the sky. From jagged shadows that pierce the blue and the thin air where the temberline ends.
From the ghost who traded my name for keys that finally match. Where the tide forgot to return to shore. From porcelain smills with rugged edges.
I am from chasing the golden hills on four legs and tracing the veins within the ribs of the mountains.
