Youngstown

The first time I fell in love was in this city

With a curly haired boy who didn’t know how to kiss me

And held my hand too tight.

 

My family’s roots have dug generations deep                              

With a love as gentle as the willow’s weeping

In the summer breeze.

 

My tongue will forever be tinted by the taste

Of homemade red and the black factory waste

That spills into the sky.

 

My mind will always paint home in a certain light-

The bittersweet shade of an indigo night

Just before it falls.

 

This is the first place I have ever left

And the only place that has yet to leave me.

This poem is about: 
Me

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