She stole PBR from the gas station down the street and
on hot, summer nights,
we swam naked in the lake.
Our dinner consisted of two slices of greasy pizza

she got for free from a guy named Ian.
She was an indigo child,
an optimist.
Her laughter was a magnet,
pulling me towards her cherry stained
chapped lips.

I never talked much,
so she filled the silences with her
body. Chiffon pink lines
wrapped around her wrists like a bracelet,
she said she wanted to get tattoos
to cover the scars and I said
that she looks beautiful.

When we got high
she liked to talk about the future
and how she wanted
to be a star. We were eighteen,
nineteen, or twenty.
Age didn’t really matter.
We were naïve.

She got accepted into Roosevelt,
majored in Film and
Feminist Theory,
while I wrote poems
about that summer
we became women.