boy asked me to
the prom. Back then I had acne thick
as bread pudding, was chubby
as a house cat, and shyer than
a doormat.

Not one
of my friends asked
me to be their bridesmaid. Maybe
they were afraid of the way
I’d behave. Even though I was sweet
as a brioche I didn’t have much gauche.

Not one
person bought my last
poetry book. After all the time
it took to put the **** together
I was beginning to feel
like an unopened letter, the kind
that’s stamped “return to sender”