I walk these streets
like I’m wearing someone else’s shoes.
They fit,
but they don’t feel right.
Every step echoes louder
than the silence around me.

This place—
it looks fine on the surface.
Blue skies,
clean sidewalks,
people smiling like everything’s figured out.
But I don’t belong here.
Not really.

It’s not the buildings.
Not the weather.
It’s the energy.
Cold in the way
that gets inside your chest.
Like no one sees you
unless you perform for them.
Like if you speak your truth,
they’ll flinch.

I’ve tried to settle in.
Tried to make it feel right.
But every time I look around,
I feel like I’m standing in a room
where the walls are inching closer,
slow—
but constant.

There’s no familiar here.
No faces that remember me
before I built these defenses.
No spots where my memories live.
Just empty space
and routines that feel borrowed.

I talk to myself more now.
Not ‘cause I’m crazy,
but ‘cause it’s the only conversation
that sounds like home.

I’m not even asking
for perfect.
I’m just tired
of feeling like a ghost
in my own life.

This place don’t get me.
It never did.
And the longer I stay,
the more I forget
what it felt like
to be full.

But I haven’t given up.
Not yet.
Because somewhere
maybe back home,
maybe somewhere new
there’s a place
where I’ll breathe deep
and finally exhale.

And when I find it,
I’ll know:
this time, I’m not leaving myself behind.