CosmicNova

He flew into my life on a Tuesday.

All feathers, no job.

Smelled like breadcrumbs and bad decisions.

He coo’d at me like I was the last French fry in a drive-thru bag.

And I believed him.

I’m tired.

Not “need-a-nap” tired.

Not “school-was-long” tired.

I’m tired in a way that reaches all the way down to my ribs.

I don’t sleep much anymore.

I stay up listening.

Not for music.

The house breathes heavy.
Shadows louder than footsteps.
A slammed door echoes like thunder,
but we pretend it’s just the wind again.

Dinner gets cold while silence sits warm.
Mama stirs her coffee like nothing’s wrong.

They call it “the hood.”

We call it family.

They call it “ghetto.”

We call it culture.

It’s loud — but it’s home.

The ice cream truck rings at the same time every day.