she was born on a day when
tectonic plates were crashing against each other
and i think that’s a good metaphor for her:
she was always the kind of person who fought
battles, even ones she couldn’t win.
she was a mess of moments she should have
taken seriously and too many times she tried
to laugh off the pain.
i learned how to care about other people
too much by watching her.
diagnosed as a grenade, she told me one day,
sure to blow up in someone’s face.
you’re going to be fine, i told her.
just let me leave, she said and
i wish i had, but i couldn’t,
not until she kicked and screamed her way
out of the doors, resenting everything
that stayed, a friend by memory alone.
i still have the scars from her detonation.
i will probably carry then with me until
i, too, leave.
fast friends make fast ends make sad ends make
wondering when she stopped caring
enough to not even want to say goodbye.
to the new girl, don’t worry:
i don’t hate you the same way i loved her.
i’m sorry, but i’ve learned to be wary
of blonde girls who draw eyes
on the corners of their papers.
when i look at you,
i will always think of her
and i’ll probably spend most of my life
wondering if she ever found
what she was looking for