The Back Door by Toby Ameson (California, 35)

Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts


You learned early to stand
next to the back door,
prepared to make a quick exit.

So many things could have triggered
that final flight--
the constant haystack
slumping your camel back
was so heavy.

The straw could have been anything
at the wrong moment--
your mother’s nagging,
your teacher’s red marks,
your friend’s careless words,
your own inner well
of seething darkness
rising an inch too high.

You always had a plan,
rucksack for the beyond
slung over your chipped shoulder
in the hopes of being needed,
hand twitching in the air
above the knob like a gunslinger
waiting for high noon.

When you grow up needing
a back door out of life,
the mazes of your coral brain
form around the shape of your
hand on the knob, pointing like
an invisible arrow
back to the secret door.

One day, you won’t need it anymore.
But you’ll always know it’s there
by the negative space in the maze.

And if you do ever need it again,
it will be there,
waiting for you--
so you don’t have to go just yet.

Stay for tea.
Dessert might be nice.
The stars will be out tonight.
Sunrise is beautiful.
Stay.

The back door isn’t going anywhere.
It will always be there for you.
Stay, in the hopes that tomorrow
could be worth saving yourself for.

Mine was so worth it.
Yours could be, too.




​Toby Ameson (they/them) is a nonbinary, disabled poet from Lost Angeles who loves cats, magic, and stories that inspire hope. Their work has appeared in Mollusk Lit and International Human Rights Arts Festival Publishes.