Same Streets, Different Skin

There was a time

when I slept on concrete

like it was the only mother I had left

cold, cracked, unloving,

but still holding me

when nobody else would.

A time when my veins

were the only compass I followed,

and every hit

felt like a prayer

I didn’t actually believe in.

A time when I couldn’t take care of myself,

let alone save anyone else

just a hollowed-out version

of who I used to be,

dragging a body

I was barely living in.

& somehow

by grit, by grace,

by the fucking stubbornness

of a soul that refused to die

I clawed my way back.

Fought like hell,

broke myself open,

stitched myself together

with shaky hands

and promises I wasn’t sure I could keep.

Now I hike back

into those same homeless encampments,

the ones that once swallowed me whole,

the ones that kept me breathing

when I didn’t care if I did.

I bring food, clothes,

hope in small doses

quiet offerings to the ghosts

of who I used to be

and the people who still love me

without asking for anything in return.

& I swear, some days

it feels holy.

Other days

it feels like I’m trespassing

into a life I escaped

like I’m wearing someone else’s skin

and any minute now

someone will call me out:

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

Because gratitude is heavy.

Because coming back healed

to the place you almost died

feels like standing between two mirrors

past and present

swallowing each other whole.

But I keep going.

Because I owe those people.

Because I owe myself.

Because choosing to return

and choosing to give

is a different kind of survival

The kind that says

I made it out,

but I never forgot

who held me up

when I couldn’t stand.

The kind that whispers

even when the imposter syndrome screams:

You belong here now

not because you stayed the same,

but because you didn’t.

🪬