I carry my life in a frayed canvas pack,
a zipper that sticks, a strap that bites,
my pockets full of bus transfers
and half-forgotten addresses.
Tonight I try the shelter first—
a line curling in the cold,
breath rising like smoke signals
no one answers.
A clipboard, a nod, a cot—
for some.
For me, maybe later.
They always say maybe later.
So I drift to my cousin’s place,
where the porch light flickers
like it’s deciding whether to trust me.
“Just a couple nights,” he says,
already nervous I’ll become furniture.
I fold myself on the couch
like a bad origami crane,
trying not to rustle,
trying not to exist too loudly.
Morning pushes me out.
New place. New couch.
A friend from school who remembers me
as someone who laughed easily,
not someone who flinches
at the sound of trash trucks
because I dream of being thrown away.
I’ve learned the etiquette of displacement—
don’t take up space,
don’t ask for seconds,
don’t stay long enough
to learn the pattern of the ceiling.
Every house has its own silence,
and I sleep inside borrowed versions of it,
leaving before the sun can expose me,
a ghost with a backpack,
haunting upholstery.
One day, maybe I’ll unlock a door
that’s mine.
But for now I drift,
a tide chart of spare rooms and sofas,
mapping survival
one night at a time.