Ana

f o u r t e e n

f o u r t e e n

I want to see what you see in the comfort of your skull

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I'm fourteen when a younger friend gives me a pair of pants and says, "They're way too big for me," like if they weren't the world would be over.

I'm fourteen and my parents tell me that I can be anything I want, but as those pants dig into my hips like a tourniquet I look at myself in the mirror and I'm not

what

I want

to be.

And she appears over my shoulder, soft eyes like bottomless depths of the ocean, so easy to get lost in, and she tells me the same thing they do—that I can be anything I want—but she knows.

I'm fourteen when she takes my hand and whispers in my ear, "We can be great together."

I follow her, because I want to believe.