I probably should have waited until I’d fallen in love

or was old enough to vote

instead

as soon as I met myself fully for the first time

stepped out of my closet approved sanctuary

declared myself ready for my happily ever after

I was asked, not asked, told, to leave this house,

abomination.

They did give me $100 to get started

on my way

as long as my way was away.

I sewed a bright pink triangle to my backpack

to make sure we all knew

what exactly was happening here.

Transcripts would not be following me,

and my happily ever after became my happily never after.

Shelters don’t take minors.

Minors are fresh meat on the streets.

So I headed to the mountains, of Colorado.

I don’t think of myself as homeless, but houseless.

My home is in my tent, with my sketch pad, and a dog that adopted me along the way.

I named her Milk. For Harvey Milk.

Our hometown is here, and our time is now.

We once camped in a lady’s backyard for four months.  We chopped wood for her and piled it on the back porch.

She offered us a space in the house, in a room with a crucifix, but we’d rather live houseless than in a room with a tomb.

When she died her son gave me her hatchet, and I keep it in the tent to sleep with at night.   Me and Milk and our hatchet are home now.

Happily severed after.