I’m from sitting on the edge of

the polished leather couch every Sunday.

Reflections of jumping, my dad screaming, “Fire Him!” at the TV.

I’m from gleaming out towards the white, glistening paradise during the winter.

Zooming and slashing as the wind hits my face.

The exalted snowman knocked down,

 I make the mistake yet again.

I’m from sand-grazing across the desert,

 grains representing a thought in my inquisitive brain.

Sun gleams into each little crack on my skin, blooming new memories.

I’m from humid summer nights with wind blasting my blonde, fine hair, careless, just like me.

Every thump of the bass blares and rumbles into my sunburnt ears.

The haunting flashes of the luminous red and blue,

as I sped past Marquette Rd once again.

I’m from gazing at the spectral pitcher,

my light, ocean blue eyes meeting his deep, gloaming hazel.

The drowned out howls as I arced second in slowly, a million eyes all on me.

I’m from “That isn’t good enough,'' as the memories echo inside my incessant head

Kind of like a mangled record player, stuck on repeat eternally.

And yet, I strive to not let that record define me who I am,

but each attempt just ceases and rings internally.