i remember you as the boy who drew mazes next to me-
endless kubrikian structures with #2 pencils,
always leaned a little too close,
crooked on your elbow, making jokes until i laughed
my ugly girl chortle
you might remember me as the girl you did call ugly-
in front of your friends, my only few friends,
i didn't laugh when i was the joke that day
but i blamed my ambitious pigtails, and the metal grinding against my teeth
hopeful for future beauty
i couldn't blame you
i couldn't even blame you a few years later when i grew breasts,
and we rode bicycles to the track
where you put your maze-making hands in my back-to-school-sale jeans
i said stop
you said it's okay
so i said it's okay
i still don't know if it was but i do know you called later that day
i sat nervous and twirling the thick cord around my fingers, my chest, my neck
you made me so many things at once,
things that i could not yet name
i remember you saying sorry
and me saying it's okay
a dialogue that,
to this day, i have not escaped.