Written on October 26, 2025
You wore your mom’s dress and it had long sleeves. Second person feels too personal for how we stand in reference to each other now, if at all. It had long sleeves. I found out by accident.
The last thing I texted her was about her wedding. She texted me back, excited that I would be around, and never again. I remember recounting the incident and my confusion to a situatonal inbetweener I had introduced her to—someone who was invited to her wedding. His breath caught when I told him I wasn’t.
She had a child and both of us found out as a surprise. My accidental discovery months into it. I heard in February that everyone was surprised. I wasn’t surprised. If you were 22 and paying attention with someone, nothing is actually surprising.
Once, after a show, I found a bag on the floor of my bedroom. Seeking expert advice, I drove straight to her house. With years of experience mostly gathered in high school, she confirmed my suspicions. We laughed, unaware of the fentanyl crisis making its way to the East Coast. I played Slow Mover by Angie McMahon on the way home, and the next week I was back, cat sitting for her and swooning at our shared understanding of visitor etiquette (leave them an eighth and the bong and a note to say thank you).
She knew it was messed up from the start. After the implosion of the relationship betwixt our own, she made the hours long trip on NJ Transit to visit me. As we had done since 2018, we baked while baked. A red/orange cake mix from Trader Joe’s. I searched her eyes for understanding, asked out loud for confirmation; faced one white girl who I introduced to another and watched her shrug about the dissolution of what I thought was the most solid love in my life.
I texted, “it’s messed up, because wtf??”” and she said “ya she doesn’t lose anything :/ not cool”.
The easiest option presented to white women is to engender harm while upholding white supremacist systems. The easiest option is lazy and morally bereft. The easiest option is forgetting how Colonial women like their great great grandmoms ran the slave markets, how hilarious the crafted optics of care appear when the crafters do not give a shit.
Well, I can make anything real. Make believe the love you have for me by doubling that which I have for you. A little bit of Shalom magick for you to steal when it was given freely.
In May 2023, white girls from North Jersey take pictures of angel wings in the basement apartment. I sit on the subway and spin out, thinking about how I introduced them to each other that basement apartment, and how I have never felt more discarded, alone, or taken advantage of in my life. Colonial women ignored the humanity of Black people, bought and sold human beings, and believed it their right. They did it in in Montclair, and Ridgewood, and the Caldwells.
They did it in Brooklyn because I would have taken a bullet for them without questions, and because they would have pulled the trigger at point blank range. They tell themselves they had no choice, taking solace in the fact that they weren’t the first to live in such a way. Upholding tradition, sure—but at what cost?
You can’t out-verb yourself. When the last lie you tell is to the mirror, the truth is a lonely and painful state.
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