I rode through the dark
on two wheels and muscle memory,
toward a house
where the porch still knew my name.
It was 11—
not morning, not midnight,
but that sacred sliver
where ghosts lean in to listen.
They sat on the porch like shadows
warming old laughter in their laps.
I slipped inside,
barefoot and tired of becoming.
The shower was mine—
steam rising like prayers
from a body
too used to survival.
Then he came in—
my uncle, unexpected,
like a memory
I hadn’t finished making peace with.
And the walls—
they betrayed their duty.
Melted down like they too were tired
of pretending this was still a bathroom.
Suddenly—
skyline.
Suddenly—
a city where the quiet used to live.
And I stood, naked and rinsed,
in a world
that didn’t wait
for me to be ready.