Southern
My blouse has a cotton-boll print pattern. I smell like magnolias and my mouth tastes like peaches. I attend a nationally-ranked university steeped in tradition, where seniors wear boots, kisses are stolen at touchdowns, and you never ever walk under the 100 year old live oak on Academic Plaza by yourself. My eyes are as brown as the Mississippi and my hair has been baked blonde by the hot Southern sun. My curls are as natural and gnarled as oaks in South Carolina. My feet are steady and planted in the same boots that my grandfather wore. Where I come from is every last bit in where I’m going. I’m from the South.
