Almost Home

I’ve walked through crowded rooms
and never felt more alone.
Faces blur into a moving tide,
smiles like painted doors I’ll never open.

I tell myself I’m fine—
that the quiet is a choice,
that I’m stronger this way,
untouchable,
like steel left out in the rain.

But steel rusts.
And in the rust,
there’s a whisper—
a memory of warmth,
of voices that felt like shelter,
hands that held without asking,
eyes that saw and stayed.

I want that again.
Not the brittle kind
that cracks when life gets loud,
but the steady kind—
the kind you could build a life inside
without fear the walls will crumble.

Still, I stand at the threshold,
one foot in the open,
the other braced for retreat.
Because wanting is dangerous.
Because belonging means handing someone the match
that could burn you down.

So I linger here,
half in shadow,
half in light,
waiting for a reason
to believe that maybe—
just maybe—
home isn’t a place,
but a person
who will stay.