Friend of Mine – She didn’t have an address. But she knew how to argue for one.
Her study group never knew where she slept.
She didn’t tell them.
Because how do you say:
“I’m prepping for court while hiding from someone who thinks I belong in one”?
She kept flashcards tucked in a duffel bag.
Read constitutional law in line for donated socks.
Used case precedent to silence her panic.
She never missed a test.
Missed a few meals, though.
There was a baby in the room next door.
She rocked it when the mother cried.
Then wrote her essays by nightlight.
The shelter didn’t have Wi-Fi.
She bartered dishes for a neighbor’s hotspot.
Logged in.
Wrote arguments so sharp
they could cut the silence she lived in.
The day the results came,
she checked them on a public library computer.
She passed.
Then took the bus back to the cot that wasn’t hers.
Now she’s an advocate.
For housing. For safety. For voice.
Not because the world gave her one.
Because she built hers
out of battered books
and borrowed time.
They called her homeless.
She called herself
a witness.
