moving again, again

Whenever I move house (rarely, slowly, anxiously), I feel haunted. My gut believes I’m walking old ground; I think in palimpsests, here on water, there crossing dirt-brown carpet to close a thin door that needs an extra push. The scar on my thumb remembers the time I woke up in the middle of the night to try to lock the door, suddenly afraid of something outside, and the key broke in my hand, and I bled. I imagine people I love are in the other rooms for which we overpay, but the other rooms are very far away right now, and I can't walk home anymore. I imagine a future where I might give myself over to something that (someone who?) has a solid foundation. I'm so afraid of commitment; I commit myself. I'm afraid of spiders; I move into their hunting ground. When I moved into my old room, I woke up to a little boy who smiled down at me (a ghost smile), and I didn’t know if it was malicious, but I do know that I cried whenever I told the story. When I moved into my new house, I curled up on unpacked boxes at just gone midnight and woke up at four to a sunrise that hit the windows weirdly, with their different shapes and unfamiliar thicknesses. I'm so afraid of change; I keep changing. Fluff gathers organically in the corners of the stairs, and I become aware of how many uninspected corners there are inside my own spaces, medial, mental, and in between. I live inside and outside, the door open for the internet, and also for the sound of the birds. I don’t know how to breathe more bravely; I'm unequal in my breathing. There are so many things I want. I'd like to learn how to breathe in other languages. I'd like to go back to basics. I'd like to learn the mythology of water and earth and feel like they belong to me and I to them. I'd like to know how to ask for help without apology. I'd like to exist in the body I’ve grown up in, and to feel it's a home that loves me, and to love it back. I'd like to move with awareness and to confront how much I still have to learn without the guilt and the shame of being born here, now, as I am, without the spine I ought to have, without the words, by which I mean, without the certainty. Still. I would like to find a way to breathe and home together. With you.