Tara Jean Is Not My Lover

I’m from the acres and acres of mountain at Aunt Renee’s house in the small postal location of Trout Run, Pennsylvania.

I’m from back and forth in PA and NC, because my mom could never decide.

I’m from mostly my Nanna’s house in Lancaster County.

I’m from the pool where Tiffany scarred me by pretending to drown, and making me save her.

I’m from broasted chicken that my Pap brought home extremely often.

I’m from gallon jugs on the basement steps, and grocery bags in the bathroom closet.

I’m from my cousin Elliot spinning me around at the riverlot every year.

I’m from fighting over blue raspberry ice pops in the summer with Tiffany.

I’m from my aunt whose name I’ve stolen stealing me from my mother for months at a time.

I’m from my strange Grandfather and Great Uncle repeating the grammatically incorrect statement, “If ya scaret, say ya scaret.”

I’m from every annoying dog I’ve ever owned and fallen in love with throwing up on me.

I’m from the relaxing feeling of long car rides to North Carolina, hearing nothing but the music traveling through my headphones.

I’m from the many diaries I’ve began but never kept up with.

I’m from the giant scar on my forehead where I’d received seven stitches.

I’m from the self-taught drawing skills I’ve acquired over the past however many years.

I’m from the anger I felt when my mom named my first sibling Anthony instead of Prince like I wanted.

I’m from the many days spent playing The Sims with Tiffany, and laughing maniacally while making her mad when I purposely murdered her people.

I’m from the music that has kept me alive throughout all of these years.

I’m from my admirable, independent, mother who raised three children all by herself for 16 years.


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