Not My Girlfriend

We dress alike, mostly,

two crows in black

bouncing along together like ping pong balls.

We pass manga forth and back,

poignant parts circled

in glitter-pen scrawls.

We tap counter rhythms

on the back of the bus.

We talk, hang out, crack up—

that’s us.

She gives me gummy worms when I deep-end.

Yeah, I like her, but she’s just my friend,

she’s not my girlfriend.

Not my girlfriend.

Sleepover

Pizza arrived 

so we fought over the pepperoni slices 

then messaged each other

hilarious distorted-face selfies

and luscious pouty-lip poses.

Some way-too-Disney movie was playing

until Mrs. Flinner finally went to bed, 

but we mainly talked anyway

stretched out across couches and puffy chairs,

blankets and pillows strewn about like tornado-fall.

When her feelings got hurt,

Alex ran into the bathroom 

and later came out snuffling, so 

we all hugged her, scrunchied our hair up

and did makeovers.

Obviously, we agreed all boys are either dumb or hot,

but when I found out no one likes 

Jameeka Smith any more, I almost crumbled.

Jameeka, my best friend, Jameeka.

I’m Not Sorry

Shake hands and say you’re sorry,

be nice and show a smile;

we all have disagreements now and then.

So we grip each other’s fingers,

grit our teeth gorilla style

‘cause we both know we would do it all again:

—I'm not sorry.

—I'm not either.

The Doodler

I inhabit the margins

and empty spaces of the room.

Connector of lines, shapes,

and fat-letter fonts,

my abstract ornaments

enliven every edge.

Elegant eyeballs crowd my corners.

Delicate dragon wings,

wide-eyed wiener dogs,

anime anti-heroes

fill my voids.

Bulldog

I gnaw on others' frailties

like throw-away chicken bones,

barking clever put-downs,

sinking smiling teeth into their softer places—

So easy, gratifying

how the pack laps it up.

I have earned the position of alpha dog,

the lead harasser, mean, intimidating.

Some people fear me, 

some follow my lead,

but most avoid me

like a pitbull on a chain.

Tardy

I always make it 

to French class 

a few 

minutes 

late.

Madame Dumond says

she is tired 

of my tardy ways.

She alerts my parents 

weekly

and has made notes in

my progress report 

about it twice.

Still,

I prefer staying behind

in a bathroom stall 

a few extra 

minutes

if it means 

not crossing paths

with you-know-who-and-friends

who will mock me

laugh

and call me doctor fatness

just to see my

welling eyes 

of shame.

Ally

Rejected, 

my wardrobe, hair, and skin

dissected by some 

certain others, 

I was hindered, 

smothered by their jibes and comments, 

rendered unworthy 

by their tribe and sent 

into a troubling emotional 

rabbit-hole descent, 

a friendless state of lonely social discontent.

Confused,

because, just being me, paying 

no attention to their clique, 

I wasn’t used to being judged so quick, 

to random insults, 

sticky words and barbs.

I was coming from another town 

where life was nice and I was 

relatively cool with who I was. 

This place was all about just how 

to sting another kid and laugh

at any gaff or stupid thing 

and I was slipping

more each day into despair.

Heroically,

you told the others 

to back off, to let

me be, and stood your ground 

when first they scoffed 

and hurled insults at you, 

like why d’you care, you love 

that skin, that other kind of hair? 

But you 

Enveloped 

me with arms, you shielded me

from all that verbal harm, 

developed commonality

with me until 

my armor hardened 

and I learned how this place works.

Now I can disregard 

those twerps who spurn me 

with their rude remarks, so 

thank you, ally, friend.