I remember you, so clearly,
Esteemed friend of mine,
you told me you’d never be
too far behind,
you told me to be myself,
I’d no longer have to lie.
For who’s a true friend
if one has to hide?
So I painted my nails
black,
And wrote poems about
death,
and you told me “no”,
you didn’t want me like that.
It still hurts that you didn’t want me around.
