I.

Where did I come from?

If you ask me,

I came from faith shoved down my throat.

I came from dandelions in the spring.

I also came from blood so thick I thought I might drown.

I carried these things with me,

Held them close when it was cold,

And continued to persist.

I came from, "It gets better," and, "You'll find your faith."

I came from paper planes,

And plastic stars.

I came from a glass home,

And eggshells under my feet.

I came from agonizing power suppressed by tranquility,

Ambition broken by anxiety.

But if you ask me who I am?

That’s an entirely different question.

You may receive a blank face,

Or a page, unfilled.

"Who am I?" Makes me itch.

"Who am I?" Makes my mind shiver, and my blood run cold.

This overwhelming question does something to me that you may only ever experience,

But not explain.

Because no one could understand,

But they may relate.

This creates a current of thoughts,

Rushing so fast,

Boiling over the edge,

That you don’t comprehend near to any of it.

Suddenly you don't know whether to stress or compress your thinking process.

You don’t know whether to suppress or depress them,

Whether or not your thought process is a success,

Or how you may simply impress.

Now take it back...

Slowly. Think. Breathe.

The monologue is in my head again.

It tells me what to do.

I am a series of words and numbers.

I am what my mind has created.

I am a cycle of endless thoughts.

I am never-ending.

And for those whom are concerned,

I came from everything that has tried to stop me.