Maybe I'm supposed to be a nomad.

Maybe I'm not supposed to have a place.

Others do.

They have family or friends or a place of their own.

The comfort of familiarity, of stability, of being wanted.

I just exist.

I find myself intruding on the sacred moments of families, on the meditative moments of individuals, in the moments people have welcomed me out of politeness or pity but those same people actually wish I'd just leave them be.

Scuttled from human to human. 

Kept at a distance.

She's different than us. We can't claim her, can we?

Can I really blame them?

I don't actually belong anywhere.

And my hollow self feels the cold shudder and ache of the longing to belong. The emptiness of a heart beating to belong. Begging to belong. 

Desperate?

Despicable.

Don't you know you only lose what you cling to!?

Maybe I try too hard. 

No. 

Maybe I don't try hard enough.

And then it burns hot like ice: Grow up little girl. You don't belong anywhere. Find your own way. 

You'll always be alone.

And dream that Lewis was right.