#10 Here's to You, Angela, and Me (and You), respectively

(I Couldn't decide which one embarrassed me more, so here we go with both.)

.

I wanted to talk

to you about how

it really made me

feel--all shame aside.

Listen for once in

our time together,

okay, Angela?

.

I know that you used

me. Okay, you’ve been

using me ever

since ninth grade. Yeah, we’ve

had some fun, I know.

I wrote a poem

about our FriDays.

.

I didn’t know I

was your token of

some inner conquest--

ha ha. But really.

It took you breaking

through the barriers

that I had built for

a reason--making

me feel…flattered, I

guess, for a minute--

then confusing and

shaming me in one

dark session of your

masturbation: more

than a kiss, and less

than one. A secret

you willingly gave

away, undoing me

for a time. You didn’t

count on my quick lies.

They were good. Every-

one knew you were cracked.

.

I looked at you that

morning in horror:

“Why did you tell them?”

I looked at you and

thought: You used me to

get him. Your sick brain.

Sick sick Angela.

.

Okay. I wanted to

tell you that I

know it happened, and

okay, I was curious.

It wasn’t worth the

confusion. You were

not worth the FriDays.

I wanted to tell

you that. Yours Truly.//

.

.

The image of my ribcage

opens up

and bleeds into the mirror

foggily

I bet I can remember

the fire-sore

happiness I felt, oh so

momentarily.

I recall a brief frenzy

with a knife

taken from the kitchen on

one dark night.

I wasn’t showing you. I

think, maybe,

I was showing everyone.

I didn’t

see your face. I didn’t feel

naked. My

ribs lifting and burning and

falling and

creaking, my corset of fire,

I once said

in another poem in

this quaint vein.

That’s all I can remember.

Me. Me. Me.//