We grew up in the weeds — running wild at the bottom lip of a cul de sac.
Deciphering clouds shaped like the Queen of England and Lassie.
I tried to dig a hole to China under our yellow swing set and you went in for a nap.
For lunch we ate grapes and ham sandwiches on plastic trays in the tall grass.
I always knew you’d be my longest friend, but in our 20’s I dropped you and watched us shatter like glass.
I cannot write enough letters or bake enough bread to say I’m sorry.
My protection was a bubble that only covered the two of us and the outside world had knives.
Aimee Nicole is a queer poet currently residing in Rhode Island. She holds a BFA in Creative Writing from Roger Williams University and has been published by the Red Booth Review, The Nonconformist, and Voice of Eve, among others. For fun, she enjoys attending roller derby bouts and trying desperately to win at drag bingo.