Way Out

tom - 


i saw a woman yesterday at the tram stop. she held a grocery bag in one hand and silence in the other, a kind of silence that screamed of things she never chose but learned to make peace with. and for a moment, i thought of me, and then i thought of you, and then i thought of all the things i ran from while pretending i was chasing something worth the fall.


i think i know now, why i couldn’t stay. why i folded my feelings into paper cranes and set them flying before they could nest. it wasn’t you. maybe it was never anyone. in every man, i thought i was seeking love, but i was just looking for a door. a way out of myself, out of the weight of being the woman i was raised to become, and the girl i was too afraid to outgrow.


you once asked me, if i believed in love. i said yes, but my answer, it was rehearsed — one i learned from watching my mother in her silk robes, sipping tea while waiting for a man to bring her the world she felt entitled to. i didn’t know then that it would echo in me for years, like a ghost that only speaks when i’m alone and almost happy.


i wanted you to save me from that. from her, from me. i wanted you to be the kind of man she would approve of — not because you’re rich, but because you made it easy for me to stop pretending i could carry everything on my own. maybe that’s why i loved you in a way that felt like stepping into a house mid-renovation — walls half-painted, dust in the corners, but i kept calling it home because i was too afraid i’d never find another with a roof.


the truth is, i don’t think i’ve ever really been in love. i think i’ve only ever been tired. and in that exhaustion, i mistook comfort for connection, chemistry for clarity, escape for intimacy. i loved people like placeholders, and maybe that’s because i’ve only ever loved myself on certain days, under specific lights, when i’ve done enough to earn it.


i am sad to tell you this, not because it changes anything between us, but because it doesn’t. because i still don’t know how to love without conditions, or if i even want to. because i am thirty and the math doesn’t add up anymore. and starting from scratch feels like a luxury i can’t afford.


i hope you’re well. i hope you’ve found someone who doesn’t look for exits in the middle of a kiss. and if you ever think of me, think of the girl who tried, even if she didn’t know what she was trying for.


- demi

Bad Habits

tongues stained
violet crushed escape

you said stars
sound better

than sorries

so I left them at the party

the room pulsed,

ceiling swam

and walls lost their shape

our bodies

forgot who they belonged to

and we let them

your pupils:

two eclipses

pulling tide from the curtains.

gravity

let go,

how familiar.

half smoke,

half me.

half truth

half you.

the moon

played dead outside,

eavesdropping on

our pretty lies.

i swallowed

another hour,

i think our last,

almost told you

that my heart caved in.

but my mouth

was full of music

i couldn’t sing

and your voice

was a match

lit under water.

et enfin

a croissant
half-warm
on the kitchen counter
i didn’t say goodbye to either

left your city
like a book
i never opened again

a grin you forgot
on my lips—
merci

the sky did try
to weep
but i packed too fast
for weather

somewhere between
paris and nowhere
i whispered to the clouds
you were kind

and we had everything
to make a memory
of june

no rewinds,
just a playlist
i skip
a little slower now

and me,
i’ll keep the dream
a dream,

et enfin
the heart
folds itself

carry-on again

« hey you »

humid june / sweat on your neck / a cologne / i breathed in a little too long / your name / not mine to own / on her tongue // racing pulse and cigarettes / everything smelled like / foolish / or honey / depends who’s asking // i said you were right / just to win / just to lose / but hey you / paris was only gold if / i didn’t blink / and i didn’t blink // you dreamed brooklyn skyline / through your teeth / like a secret / i couldn’t translate / maybe it meant something / in another life / but this one / hurts fine // smoke in your voice / was it distance / or was it / just me / again // in another life / trains have no doors / to get on / just to get off / but even there / i’d still have / waited.

Playin'

 

the sound had hands
i wish
were yours

a breath
inside a breath
still no walls
kept me

i became the room
of our aftermath
mischief in fabric
smells like you

in the sea
of spinning blues
your eyes weren't listening
to the song that
drowned me

Cowboy

the traffic
held its breath

a red blink
too soft
i mistook it for
a heartbeat

grief is a boy
who learned to ride a bike
with the arms of an ocean
wrapped around his waist
pretending to be still

my skin remembers—
your warmth becoming
a kind of weather

and some mornings
i wake
to light
shaped like you
leaving

Small Hours in Paris

I packed
a carry-on heart,
too small for the weight
I never unpacked.

Feelings
are delays,
so I ran on time
and arrived
alone.

The metro sighs,
it knows
no one ever stays.

I walk past lovers,
hands in each other’s pockets,
and slide mine
into my own.

Some cities ache,
some cities wait.

Some cities won’t hold me
when I walk away.

Today

The sun is
a whisper through the bones.

The ocean ahead,
the city behind.
I belong to neither.

I close my eyes.

For a moment,
there is no purpose,
no past,
just the wind,

weightless,

carrying me home

to nothing

and everything.

(Kennedy in August →)

Trip

The night caught in my teeth,
it does not have a name.

What was I chasing?

I promise it was on the tip of my tongue.

What did I find?

A memory I’m not sure is mine.

The shadow pulls over me like a blanket.
Whatever it is can wait.

Aquarians

Sundays, borrowed from you

but I always forget to return.

I almost tell you about my mother,
how she drinks her wine in a coffee mug,

and my father, how he leaves
before the dining table is cleared.

But we have learned never to ask each other

questions that don't belong to us.

From my lips to yours,

an apology.

The rest of us
untouched.