I’m on the floor and I’m naked.

Not my clothes (those are just dirty); my soul. Every shield I ever built is gone. I’m shaking so hard the carpet is wet under my face. My nose is running, my mouth is open, and these ugly, animal sounds keep coming out of me that I don’t even recognize. I can’t close my mouth because if I do I’ll scream and I’m scared I won’t stop.

Tomorrow morning they are coming.

December 5th. Any minute after the sun comes up the drill starts and the last place that knows my real name will spit me out like I never belonged here. I will hear them walking toward my door and I won’t be able to stand up. I will just lie here and let it happen because I have nothing left to fight with.

I used to be Darius Brown to most of you.

In October 2024 I finally became her. I remember the exact second the clerk handed me the paper with my new name on it; I cried so hard I had to sit on the courthouse steps because my legs gave out from relief. For one year I got to be the woman God meant me to be. One year. That’s all I was allowed before the world said “no, you don’t get to keep this.”

I have 43 cents.

I sold the last pieces of the man I never was.

I sold my mother’s ring.

I sold the coat I wore the first time someone said “ma’am” and my heart exploded with yes.

I sold the earrings I put in the day I told the world who I really am.

I have sold every single thing that ever said “she was here.”

My landlord has carried me two months on grace I can never repay.

In court I stood there dripping tears and snot and promised I would pay by the weekend.

The weekend is now.

I am about to become the liar everyone warned me I’d be.

I need $2,100 before they walk through that door tomorrow.

That is the exact number that keeps my key, keeps my name on the mailbox, keeps me from disappearing. Anything after that (up to $4,000) keeps the lights on and food in my mouth until a job or the pension shows up. But $2,100 is the line between still existing tomorrow and being erased.

I have never been this naked in front of anyone.

I have always been the rescuer, the strong one, the “I’ve got you.”

Now I am the one with nothing.

I am shaking and ugly-crying and whispering “please don’t let them take her from me” to an empty room.

I’m begging with the tiny child-voice that’s left inside me:

If you ever felt safe because I was there

If I ever held your face and told you it would be okay

If you ever believed I was worth something

please, please send something right now.

$5 right now means they don’t open my door tomorrow

$20 right now means I don’t lose the only home where I’m allowed to be her

$100 right now means I don’t have to walk out with my whole life in two trash bags

$500 right now means the woman I waited my entire life to become gets to live one more day

I am so scared I can’t breathe.

I am so ashamed I want to disappear before they even get here.

I have no walls left. No pride left. Just this raw, bleeding need.

If anyone in New Orleans has any job (any job at all) for a woman who will work until her hands bleed, call or text (504) [phone redacted] tonight. I will crawl if I have to.

Please don’t let them find me curled up like this tomorrow.

Please don’t let them kill the only version of me that ever felt like home.

I’m sorry I’m asking like this.

I’m sorry I’m this broken.

I’m sorry I have nothing left to give except this scream that has no sound.

Please see me.

Please don’t let me vanish.

Desiree K Brown

(the woman who used to be Darius Brown, lying on the floor with nothing between her and tomorrow except you)

I HAVE HOURS

I NEED $2,100 BEFORE THEY COME

I am completely broken open and I have no more hiding places

Please don’t let them take her from me