Sylvie Hard
Ever since I turned fourteen, it’s felt like
every single person I know needs cheering up
and I’m the one to do it. Sylvie’s easy,
my mom said about me, and not in the way
where I slept with a lot of boys. Sometimes
it was like I was her tripod: picked up
unprotesting and carried over her shoulder
to be propped up (unprotesting) somewhere else
I didn’t want to be, another Sephora, another Junior League
luncheon with flower wall, while she took
pictures of herself in bad lighting. I don’t know
how to be the one who calls the shots. I don’t know
what to do with sad-eyed Knox in his cast
in this parking lot I’ve just puked in, looking at me
like I need something he can help with.
It makes me itchy, makes me scared, makes me
wonder what he wants from me after.