nobody planned to keep.
Some homes were decent.
Some were terrifying.
Most were temporary.
I learned how to leave quickly.
How to eat fast before food disappeared.
How not to cry in front of strangers because pity always came with consequences.
When I aged out at eighteen, the state handed me paperwork, two trash bags of clothes, and something they called “independence.”
Which really meant:
Good luck.
I ended up in that small town because rent was cheap and nobody cared enough to ask questions.
For years, I drifted between
