I’ve always felt like a tumbleweed. I’m sitting on the street lit porch watching two girls who speak a different language move their things into what’s supposed to be my room. I smiled. I told them to go ahead and make theirselves at home. I doubt the next place I move will feel anything close to home at all… But what would? I know everyone goes through these things, but my heart feels like it couldn’t get worse. I’m trying. I’m really fucking trying to make this my struggle- nobody elses. I just feel alone. I hate myself for drinking alone or smoking cigarettes to calm my anxiety. It really doesn’t. Sometimes I just wish I hadn’t been displaced so early. I know I’m lucky in so many ways. I have the best best friend. My boyfriend talks me out of crazy and gets me a cozy blanket to make me feel warm when he’s gone… But I always end up feeling like I’m getting the short straw. My lifelines lead to empty voices- my mom stuck in a tiny room taking care of my grandma who just tells her she’s nothing. My brother always feels like he’s not enough. My dad always feels like nothings enough. Gosh I just don’t know what to do sometimes. I know I need to take the bad and just push it away- be the Richelle I know I am. I’m just discouraged. I just want to take that comfy blanket to a home thats mine and watch the leaves fall into autumn. I just want to curl up and feel like I’m really home- a home I can keep. Complain, complain. I’m just so lucky. I’m just so sad.
