She’s pure white, not wan;
her bloodlessness enough
to get your blood up.
She’s a sunless sycophant;
she knows you like her
Not like me: my skin is darkened from that year we lived in Barcelona,
the long weekend in Verona, the aubade’s questions I answered every time
while you salted away in shade, burning.
She’s got hair of red-orange;
gilded and golden and
bottled up for you.
She changes it with seasons;
lets it loose when you’re looking,
Not like me: my hair is black, from my mother, the giver
and look! Threads of silver, though we both know
you put them there in the night, when you thought I was sleeping.
She’s all bones and angles;
slender from spending
her youth on her body.
She’s got small breasts and waist;
rawboned and loose-skinned
Not like me: my body is curved from the food we shared, I am
half moons and circles from the problems we aired, and you said
you liked it that way, soft and real and breasts and arms.
She’s petite at five foot four;
reaching and stretching
at parallel moments.
She’s small enough to lift;
the babydoll you wanted
Not like me: my body is tall and skyward, from reaching to you
while you were preaching at me to love myself,
because you say you love me more than anyone.
But now it’s her.
She is ‘ridiculously beautiful’
and you say you couldn’t help it: she’s all you wanted.
Now I don’t miss how we were
Her beauty is indisputable
But I’m telling you I can help it: I won’t be daunted.
I am exactly who I want to be.
Fuck you, fuck her, fuck it,
I’m just like me.