Hidden Pain of a Foster Youth

Who am I? I am the byproduct of "niggas" and "crackas": caramel skin, nappy black hair and dark chocolate eyes. I am more than meets the eye. I am a dusty book that has yet to be opened, I have a story to tell. Are you listening? I have known a painfully empty stomach, bruises on my skin, and frustration mixed with grief as I realize that my brother had an accident on the last blanket we had to keep warm. I have known a house without food, water, or electricity, a cold street corner; walls of homeless and domestic violence shelters; a backpack with everything I can carry (buried within) I am acquainted with rules that come with being in foster care, caseworkers who visit me at school, pointless investigations resulting from false reports and accusations. I am the girl who smiled through the hurt and laughed, even though I really wanted to lie down and cry My teachers saw the afflicted child I was lent me a distraction that lead to a passion: learning. Without my teachers I Dont Know! where I would be today. And I sit here Facing my obstacles Who am I?, you ask I am a foster kid, a survivor, and most of all, a dreamer. In my life, NOTHING will stop me from reaching for the stars...