your skin was like an open wound

when i knew you last

met you at 8 years old

but all we had was past

we bonded over bitchiness

and black mascara stains

through kisses on lips with older boys

and endless growing pains

i remember slapping you in the face

and you forgiving me

and when i say ‘slapping you in the face’

i mean, like, literally

you thought i was dumb and spoke too much

i thought you were a slut

our bitchiness made us friends

and made our deepest cuts

i didn’t say that i was leaving

i didn’t think you’d care

and then we never spoke again

left 8 years right there

i never saw your braces off

i never saw you cut your hair

i never saw find yourself

and i never thought I’d care




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