American You

I come from hands that cracked

from mouths that swallowed apologies

like bitter medicine,

from backs that bent under weight

they were never meant to carry.

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I come from silence

where there should have been lullabies,

before they could hold softness,

from doors slammed harder

than the wind against the house,

from love that felt more like a lesson

than a home.

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I have learned to carve tenderness

out of stone,

to speak warmth into spaces

that have only known cold.

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I have learned

that blood is not the only thing

we inherit—

we can choose what stays,

what leaves,

what we refuse to pass down.