In seventh grade, we traded our braces
for bubble gum. We slicked on films of red lipstick
that grazed our teeth and chins, and stuck our bony ankles into
our mothers’ stilettos.

Cement sidewalks became our runways,
the graying curtains our shining swathes of silk.
We ate pizza with our pinkies raised
achingly high, liked the way we sat with our legs
crossed over. We let our hair hang loose.

You liked to pinch
the side of your belly, frowning at the little piece
of humanness gathered between your fingertips.
I watched you try to make it disappear.
Your eyes never met mine in the bathroom mirror
when you touched your collarbone and told me
that it was better.

But Jane, don’t you know?
All we wanted to do was grow up.
You forget that you’re pinching a piece of yourself.
Why get rid of it when it’s just you?
I’m going to miss that little piece of Jane
when it’s gone.