Porchlight to Cityscape

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.