Lana Grey

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gorgeous beyond her years and unashamed
to admit she knows it, she reminds me she’s thin
and that her breasts are larger than mine

she assures me I’m beautiful, but she makes
certain I know hers is the beauty more people will recognize

we trade shirts and pants, but she swears she’s skinnier,
and who am I to argue

she models, tells classmates it is her profession,
but each photoshoot is one her family pays for to give her exposure

she is exposed, naked in a Facebook photo, and she swears
she hasn’t slept with her boyfriend

and still she insists on sharing details of his size
and the things they’ve done on the couch

where we’ve sat watching Tim Burton films
her words leave the taste of sour ashes in my mouth

she likes women, too, she says, but not
me. I am not her type, she says, though she uses

my chest as a pillow as Sweeney Todd slashes
another throat and pushes the propriety ingrained into

me by showing not a shred of shame, changing
clothes in front of me so often I know her contours
better than I ever wished to know those of a sister

Lana Grey is a former-ballerina-turned-poet who lives in Illinois and swears she should have been born either in the fifties or the eighties. Her favorite season is autumn, and she hopes someday to own a Bengal cat.