“you just need to provide proof of residency for the last six months.” the words bounce around my skull like trapped hornets. proof. of what? of a phantom life? like my chest aches from holding so much still, this is a different kind of ache. a burning, a white-hot FURY that they can ask for something that doesn't exist for me anymore. not in any way they’d recognize. my stomach twists itself into a knot so tight it feels like it's trying to swallow itself whole. what the FUCK do they want? a receipt for every gas station coffee? a log of every time i pressed my work clothes in a different motel bathroom? it's not just a form, it's a goddamn insult.