Friend

She curls on my bed with her hair in a fan while I tear at my fingers beside.

Floaty speech bubbles and thought bubbles and skin troubles pepper the blank wall I like.

“Hang some stuff here!” She tells me.

I nod, but “I like it blank there,” I reply.

Because when she leaves and the dent in my sheets pops up again I can see

What she said

What she thought

What she wants spread about on the white wall and

Be more like she.

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