the end of not-quite-love in the black car you share with your brother
By Iliana Demas
my shoe stamps dirt and dust into the dash. i look
at the asphalt of this parking lot through the purple-tinted
window and try to conjure beauty. you are growing
out your stubble and growing out your stubble
and you don’t tell me to put my foot down. the end
of my left shoelace is frayed and i think
you approve. fingertip on fingertip on plastic,
cracking and disappointing. and disappointing. i am
a runny nose on a hot day in july
or the shimmer of an oil spill or a gaping
mouth. i am not a woman from a mold. i am
not yet a woman. i hope you understand this.
shove a cd into the console. tell me how much you paid
for it. look at me. look at me. crinkle your
napkin. you are a taste i can’t
quite name or a reflection in the rear view
or a vandalized yearbook. you are less than you
think you are. you have not yet understood
this. you tell me to rebel and rebel and that
i will find myself, while you
are in a parking lot, sneaking around
with a girl whom you only hold. you hold her
until she pushes your warm scarred arms
off of her, and you say you were never holding her
in the first place. never holding
her. never holding.
Iliana Demas is a first-year from Sacramento, California. She has received silver and gold medals from the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, been recognized as a YoungArts winner, and is published in DePaul’s Blue Book: Best American High School Writing 2025, among other accolades. In her free time, she likes to watch video essays and rock climb.
