i have died a million times on your bathroom floor, jessica.

 do you remember me,
the way we used to be, children
rebellious and angry
and revolting against
whatever and everything
because we both were cheated
somehow or another and in more ways than one
 somehow caught in the loop between the womb and  the mother

 do you remember?
your mother caught us
smoking pot in the living room and
how many times we cried together
in the bathroom floor, skin pressed
against the cold tiles and your
mascara on my shirt?

i have ached for someone like you for so long.
for the one I can wrestle in the dirt
and the one who will help me wipe the
grass stains off because I forget.

I have wanted this for the entirety
of my life, jessica, and I have lost
and forgotten.
  Have you?
who will I wrestle now to make me
forget how old I am supposed to be and
who will let me lie huddled next to
their toilet, drunk, and lie to my
mother and who will tell me how
beautiful I am when I have just come
in from crying and then ask me inside
to help her with her makeup?

  You?
  Not you.

I spent my last days in that town
without you. I went to the fair with
Eric and when I saw you, he introduced
himself as my best friend. I blushed.
 Blasphemy.
 Little girls die so easily,
  and so have we.

Months ago when you were to
be a mother and your child died in
her crib, I showed up at your door.
 "here amanda,
 let me show you the pictures."
  and you didn't cry this time.

It only takes one instant to lose it:
 the ignorant boys we kissed just to tease them,
 the nights of drinking and smoking
 someone elses pot and drinking
 someone elses half full bottle of Jim Beam.
 sprawled out on the floor
 and confessing, half
 naked and no one home

We ran away once together – one
hour and everything would have been different – do you know?
The cops brought us back to our mothers
and we were resentful. Neither of us had fathers that we actually
believed really existed.
 Distance was always an issue.
 Distance between the words
 spoken and distance between
 hands.

in the eighth grade linked by hearts
that read:
 BEST FRIENDS
 FOREVER
because we had nobody else,
maybe.

  do you remember too?

"Here amanda, let me show you the pictures"

You said you did not ask me to the
funeral because I could not have
taken it. I knew. I have found fragments
of bone in my closet and knew where
the rest was and I did not even
lower my head.
So I knew and so did you,
but it didn't matter.
 I think that was the last time I ever
 really looked at you, Jessica.
Maybe the first.

   Once, years grouped
on each other, cluttering themselves
with new makeup, schoolgirl kisses,
best friends, summer days, cigarettes,
 everything that belonged to us
  I see that loop snapping
  open out away
 mutual respect, maybe
 but I can't look at you anymore
 not my jessica.

  do you remember and
if someday neither of us know
what it feels like to be something
 and if we're still proud white trash
can I come over with a pack
of Marlboro Lights and can we wrestle?