I cried when you cried
and kissed when you kissed.
Now if I died,
I'm unsure I'd be missed.
Remember me?
I told you it was OK
when it really was not OK
when you touched me
inappropriately
on my own couch
that one night
after we saw the film
about a graffiti artist.
It was not OK,
I'm still not OK.
Remember me?
I said it was no big deal
when it really was,
obviously,
a big deal
that you started liking her
instead of me.
It was a big deal,
when I asked you
to kiss me in the halls.
Remember me?
I'm not your little girl anymore.
I am seventeen years old,
and I can't breathe most nights.
Things are not OK.
Things are a big deal.
So much so,
that it is
OK.
It's fine, really.
No big Deal.