I Belong Nowhere

The world never taught me how to sit with pain. No one showed me where to put it, how to carry it, or whether it was even meant to be carried at all. So I spent years trying to tuck it away—wedging it between the cracks of my ribs, pressing it deep beneath my skin, hiding it in the quietest corners of my mind. But grief has a way of seeping through, like water finding its way through even the smallest fractures.

When you lose the people who gave you life before you’ve had the chance to understand its weight, you are forced to relearn the world from scratch. You wake up in a life that no longer belongs to you, one that doesn’t resemble the one you were supposed to have. And everywhere you look, there are people with anchors—hands to hold, voices to call home. But for you, there is only open water. And the thing about water is that it never stays still. It shifts, bends, and molds itself into whatever shape it finds. I wish I knew how to do the same. I wish I understood how to exist in this fluid state without feeling like I’m dissolving into nothing.

Some days, I feel like I am made of these images—fragmented, without horizon, without certainty. No solid ground beneath me, no direction forward. Just the quiet, aching stretch of the unknown. A vastness so endless it threatens to swallow me whole. There is an emptiness in my chest that echoes, a hollow sound against walls that no longer feel like home. And in a world so wide, so filled with people, I feel like I belong nowhere at all.