Between the Doors

I stand at a crossroads

that doesn’t look like a crossroads at all—

just a cracked sidewalk

with signs pointing everywhere

and nowhere at once.

They say there are options.

I can see them,

lined up like doors in a hallway

where the lights flicker

and every handle feels loose in my hand.

Each door asks for something I don’t have:

time I spent surviving instead of planning,

money that never stayed long enough to learn my name,

confidence built in rooms I was never invited into.

I’ve learned how to be still.

Still enough to not draw attention,

still enough to not make mistakes

that cost more than I can afford.

Fear taught me that skill well.

Fear was consistent

when nothing else was.

People say, just choose.

As if choosing wrong

hasn’t always meant falling harder

with no one rushing to catch me.

As if the ground doesn’t remember my weight.

I imagine movement sometimes—

a step forward,

a leap,

even a stumble that’s mine.

But my feet hesitate,

because hope is expensive

when you’ve been poor your whole life.

I’m not lazy.

I’m tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.

Tired from carrying the math of consequences,

from knowing one mistake can undo

years of holding it together with borrowed strength.

Still, the doors don’t disappear.

They wait.

Quiet.

Patient.

Almost kind.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part—

knowing there is a way out,

knowing others have taken it,

and standing here wondering

when fear will loosen its grip

enough for me to move.

Not running.

Not soaring.

Just one step

toward something that feels like mine.