(a tribute to becky albertalli)

i learnt english at sea,
traded my tongue
for salt and compass,
but it was becky
who brought me back to land —
when a boy fell in love
with another boy,
and his words dared me
to claim that same love
as my own.

her book lived on my nightstand,
spine worn to a gentle curve,
sentences humming in my head
until they belonged to me
as much as they belonged to her.

she offered me the strength
to feel less ashamed
of being different,
gave me a fire that burned
through the blame
i was ready to bear myself.

she gifted me with confidence
to leave my homeland
my heart outgrew,
and find my way to a place
where love was not a secret —
a shore worth swimming to.

i got woken up
before the sun could rise.
furniture scraped the floor
as the moving van arrived.

my father shed tears,
kissing the cats goodbye.
i was only seven
when their divorce
was finalised.

the next time
i was eight,
only six months
wiser than before.
my mother said
it was all a mistake —
we couldn’t live
like that anymore.

there were no cats
to bring back.
belongings were sold.
when we moved again,
we snuck out
during the day
so my father wouldn’t know.
it was better that way.

we lived hidden
in a half-house
under a tree,
as if the branches
could smother
the echoes
of the screams.

my brother returned,
shaping a new family
with a girl.
although a bit crowded,
for a moment,
i swear we were happy.

in between the bags
and the weight of living,
i jumped into
the arms of a boy
who gave me an out.
his smile felt like escape,
but left me empty
and dry.

a decade later,
i found a house —
not a house.
a home.
in a country
i was meant for.

they didn’t speak my tongue,
but accepted my love,
even the way i failed
and learnt.
the love was unconditional,
and asked for nothing
in return.

it took sixteen attempts
to find one i could own.
and now that it’s mine,
i never want to leave.

if i made a move,
it might stir the darkness —
the kind that still breathes.

sometimes.

and i need
to let it sleep.

the peasant girl
who once brought water
from the well
in cracked hands
has returned.
she didn’t mean to
leave her home behind —
it was just to escape
the silence between
what she needed
and would be never given.
she left with nothing
but a hunger for life,
so she started living,
and never apologised.

i've been clean for a month
because my box cutter is on the moving truck

i'm back in baltimore
but im not home
not really

everything's normal for two weeks
except it's not

i texted three friends to see if they wanted to hang out while i was back
only one responded
said she was going to be in connecticut

i wanna ask more people
but i dont wanna sound desperate

tell me i dont sound desperate

a green whisper  
                    curled on the curb,  
                  still as a breath held too long.  
                 its wing, half-open,  
               pointed nowhere—  
              or maybe back,  
             to some place it could  
            never reach.  
           rome moved around it,  
          unbothered.  
         motors loudly passed,  
        the occasional siren.
       indifferent sonatas,  
      and the fountains laughed  
     cold, eternal laughter.  
     i stopped,  
    but the city didn’t.  
    its feathers were soft once.  
   i could see that—  
  even streaked with dust,  
  they shimmered  
like something meant to survive.  
parakeets don’t belong here,  
they say.  
escaped,  
invasive,  
out of place.  
but it had tried.  
god, it had tried.  
  i walked the rest of the way home,  
   carrying it with me,  
    the weight of its silence  
     pressed against my chest.  
      and when i closed the door  
       behind me,  
         the tears came fast—  
           for a bird i’d never known,  
             for a life that couldn’t stay,  
                for the quiet way  
                    i, too, fell out of the sky.

she’s standing next to me
the riffs crawl slowly
under her skin,
tunes reaching
something long buried
within.

the sky thickens
with sentient air —
as if we’re sitting
in a drive-through
watching us on the screen.

even the town
is under her spell,
its nightlife dimmed,
and out of the way.

she smells like
imponderable winter air.
with a glance,
she lifts me up
and breaks me
in one breath.

her eyes —
the sea after storm.
my gaze drifts
to her mouth.
her words linger,
honey-crumbed,
after a bite.

a phone chimes —
mine.
i know
i have to go.

‘find your way back to me,’
i think.
i hope.

my heart aches,
she feels it, too.
i’m not ready
to say goodbye.

but i do.

I brewed the coffee more for you than for me,
A ritual dressed in honesty.
The mug you left — I held it near,
Like touching it might make you appear.
I wrote you notes you never read,
Then tucked them back beneath my bed.

I set your place, then stared at mine,
As if routine could rewind time.
I’d hum your songs to fill the space,
Mistaking ache for your embrace.
But holding on can blur the view —
I feared what leaving meant was true.

And so today, I break that thread,
Not out of hate, but love instead.
I’ll drink for one, I’ll clear your cup —
It’s not moving on, it’s waking up.

(on the ten-year anniversary of leaving home)

without looking back,
she boarded a flight,
concealing that piercing anxiety.
to soothe the ache,
packed her language as a guide,
weeping quietly for her country.

recognition came in tears,
stretched paper-thin—
that her home couldn’t yet grasp
that love begins within.

the early years, under flickering lights,
were spent seeking solace.
with inner voices softly humming—
inhaling cheap wine,
books as her compass—
enough to outweigh not belonging.

some nights,
she danced until her heels
worn the skin away,
bleeding her truth into tile,
whilst friends, thick as thieves,
melted into laughter, and gin.

she loved badly,
lit candles to soften the silence
that screamed louder at 3 a.m.,
scribbled poetry
on the walls of her soul—
long forgotten, left forsaken.

her twenties were a strange gift,
she never thought to ask for,
memories scattered down the hallway,
like spilled drinks, laced with honesty.
sometimes the weight is still sore,
and yet she’s walking,
barefoot,
unfolding.