Dana Miracle Writes

I am from notebooks and diaries.

From kids toys and baby bottles.

I am from the system, trauma, and neglect.

The smell of cigarettes, smoke fumes, and drugs in the drawers.

I am from carnations.

The uncut weeds from the lawn my parent’s neglected.

I’m from get togethers at my nanas with chai. I’m from my bio druggie mother and my bio in denial father.

I’m also from Brittany; my late met true mom, and Ninef, my late known to be dad.

I am from broken promises, and always being wrong.

From trust issues, and never getting along.

I’m from yelling and fighting.

Abuse and constant hate.

I’m from under my bed hiding after school from the belt when all I wanted to do was play.

I’m from curse words, bad name calling, and pray before you sleep.

I’m from barbeques that end with “I don’t want to see you” and pray before you eat.

I’m from Hughson and hand-me-downs. Turlock and late nights.

I’m from finding pill bottles in purses, never “dream well and sleep tight.”

From my bio mother OD’ing ending up in the hospital bed at 1am forgetting my name. Asking if she knew who I was she declined I was her daughter leaving me in tears and false shame.

I am from bruises and scars.

From sex crime and forced play.

I am from my dysfunctional family.

My siblings and I, forced to separate.

I came home from school everyday scared of what there is to come.

I had the smile of an innocent child; although, once I turned five that innocence had been stolen when it ever shouldn’t.

It wasn’t borrowed, there was no asking for permission.

It was “do it unless I said you couldn’t.”

I am from starvation; the hunger headaches and pangs.

I am from size 2- and an insecure size 8.

I’m from fake friends.

I’m from lessons learned.

I’m from a childhood that was only there if it was earned.

I’m from “there is no one else like me.”

I’m from the name tag of victim, and the title of survivor.

I’m from strength and bravery.

I’m from “try your best, do it for her.” The little girl who was misunderstood.