B.F.F.

I lay in the dark & stretch the portrait

of a white woman across my face

until it splits. Beneath my bed, a catalogue

Of half-faced women sing me to sleep.

I’ll start with Amanda Elias

& how I thought, in order to be worthy

of desire, I had to wear her skin.

For four years I sat across from her

In the lunchroom, mimicked her posture

blinked when she did, became the mirror

so concerned with the rise & fall

of each one of her blemishes

I even took her to the winter formal

Watched, in the green glow of the gymnasium

at how I— she danced, chiffon willow

silk mystic. I watched how the boys held her

whispered a joke in her ear that made me laugh.

Stupid boys. StupidStupid boys.

I tell the man in the chatroom

I am a platter of soft curls. Send him her photo.

Crack an egg & remove the yolk.

He could marry me, you know? You don’t.

She would never. Once, after another heartbreak

she came to school with cuts on her wrist

& maybe my rage was out of concern— I was

after all, a great friend, unflinching in my kindness

or maybe I hated how ungrateful she was

or maybe I thought her technique was pathetic

Horizontal, barely breaking the first layer

or maybe I wanted a bigger opening

to attach a zipper, slip on her hand-me-downs

& somehow she must’ve known all along

her body was a dress I hung for motivation

the way she cried while I held her wrist

dabbing it with cold water, inspecting the damage

how she kept on saying, Sorry. Sorry.