In my poem DeKalb County, I imagine a life that could have been—a life shaped by steadiness instead of chaos, by calm instead of fire. It’s a reflection on the allure of a blue house in the suburbs, where Decatur’s heat hums through the air and the Atlanta skyline rises like a kingdom in the distance. The poem wrestles with the tension between yearning for ease and embracing the jagged edges of a life lived fully—scars, struggles, and all.

Writing this piece, I couldn’t help but think of the road not taken, that timeless idea Robert Frost captured so well. But where Frost found resolution in his choice, DeKalb County dwells in the ambiguity of “what ifs.” Would a quieter life have been better, easier? Perhaps. But would it have been mine? Would I have traded the fire that refined me for a simpler existence in a blue house, far from the storms I’ve weathered?

The poem ultimately celebrates the beauty of the jagged path, the chaos that blooms into truth and art. Atlanta, for all its heat and unpredictability, became my sanctuary—a place I claimed for myself, even as I grappled with the reality of walking its streets alone. It wasn’t the life I pictured, but it’s the life that made me.