It was her bedroom:

we all stayed over

and were young.

 

I remember seeing my face

contorted in the mirror,

freckled with shy lips.

 

My friends

busied themselves about me,

studying the imperfections of beautiful women

who were sung girls.

 

They pushed their hair

and lips every which way

at my sides,

busying themselves

with reassurance

while I—undaunted,

but not inordinately beautiful—stood silently

and thought them lovely.