Image by Anzia Anderson
                          Image by Anzia Anderson


We are trapped in a young adult novel.
You are your best friend’s lesbian best friend.
You help him get the girl,
And the only mention of your sexuality is
When he mentions that you find men repugnant,
Which you don’t; you just don’t want one inside of you right now.

Your name is something feminine and beautiful, like Meghan,
But your best friend treats you like you have grubby hands
That only bend their fingers to touch soft skin.
You don’t hesitate when you scroll past a girl in lace on the internet,
Because the last thing you want to do is make a scene.
You understand how it feels to be harassed over the shape of your body,
But your best friend doesn’t.

He says Meghan, would you get it on with that girl?
And you want to tell him that his boner is more obvious that he thinks,
That he treats you like a piece of meat he wants to see layered on top of another.
You are not human to him.

Now we are trapped in the second half of a different young adult novel,
Except this isn’t his story.
It’s yours.

Meghan with the petals,
Meghan with the long stem,
You are not the foil to his character any longer.
This time you get the girl,
And you do it through mutual respect
For each other.

Meghan, tell your best friend that the only way your relationship is going to work,
Is if he treats you like you’re not a piece of veal built on stunted growth,
But a quickly blossoming daffodil pointed towards the sun.

Tell him you love him but that the assumptions he’s making
About your attraction to girls are harmful at best,
And if he wants to stick a fork in you,
He’ll have to set the table first,
Just so you can tell him
You’d rather eat alone.

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