They sat in colors—skin tones, fabrics, and emotions woven together—staggered throughout the room, waiting anxiously to be serviced.
Some wore exhaustion like a second skin. Others clung to silence as though speaking too much might unravel what little dignity they had left.
They were longing for relief.
To be clean, fed, and have the ability to breathe again.
The smell was pungent. Old piss and body odor mingled in the desperate air of that intake facility.
But we waited in the information line anyway.
Hyperaware of our surroundings, carrying an amalgamation of questions while trying not to look as uncertain as we felt.
I concealed the rage within me not because I wanted to, but because I was told one gets more bees with honey.
A prepared dampened smile to present while anticipating the same spiel the clerk probably shared hundreds of times before.
We approached the counter right after a gentleman inquiring about laundry services.
"Hi there," I said, followed by a compliment about the Mario Kart collage shirt she was wearing.
She smiled, then thanked me, and asked how she could help.
We were there to complete an intake coordination.
Yeah...
Someone who once explained these very services to hundreds of callers over the phone—even while she herself was unhoused—was now sitting on the other side of the conversation, taking a stab at a fleeting end.
And for those who don't know, it's an assessment of needs for people experiencing homelessness.
My name is Shereese.
I'm an educated Black woman over 40 who's been homeless for the better part of five years.
Alongside my daughter, we've done the best we could, as we could, following the rules in hopes things would change.
And well...
They haven't.
Why?
You tell me.
Most people usually have a rewritten story before my mouth even begins to form the details anyway.
But where you’ve arrived isn't the end of my story.
Nor is it the beginning.
It's one of many convoluted trajectories I like to call...
Blurred Chapters.