I exist somewhere between places, not here enough to belong,
not gone enough to be free.
I answer questions with location,
when what they're really asking
is whether I am safe.
I exist somewhere between places,
where home is a word I recognize
but no longer trust.
Where doors have closed so often my
hands forgot the shape of handles,
and rest feels like something
other people inherit.
I am not homeless in miles or walls,
but in a way a heart waits
for permission to exhale.
I unpack nothing-
not my grief, not my hope-
because staying has never been promised.
I exist somewhere between places,
between who I was forced to become
and who I might still be
If gentleness ever finds me
and doesn't ask for proof.
I am here.
That is not nothing.
It is a quiet act of endurance,
a body still choosing tomorrow
without knowing where it will land
And maybe one day
this in-between will soften-
will stop feeling like exile
and start feeling like a bridge.
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