annihilate

11

when i was twenty-three,

i wasn’t supposed to think of my best friend like that,

not when i’d worked so hard to avert my eyes and smile at boyfriends.

so i wrote poems about her eyes, instead,

and about her wine-stained, scarlet lips,

and about how i wanted to kiss them so bad,

that i could die.

but i shouldn’t have.

and i couldn’t have.

so i didn’t.

                                                                   // end //