In the stairwell, in the courtyards, in the dust, I learned the neighborhood: its hunger, its rust. She was the first brightness I couldn't refuse — sharp as a blade in the children's abuse. We made a world from broken rules, from borrowed books, from held-back grudges. And every room kept asking us: who would vanish first, who would stay. My brilliant friend — you made the dark look clear. You cut the world right near. I followed close, I learned the bend — my brilliant friend. She said, "You're my brilliant friend," and I heard how she could wound with a sentence, a word. I made myself small; she made herself fire — two girls tied tight to the same wire. My brilliant friend — you made the dark look clear. You cut the world right near. I followed close, I learned the bend — my brilliant friend. I left. I studied. I climbed out of the street. She stayed where the cracks and the tempers meet. And still she entered every page I made — a presence I used, a light I betrayed. If I outwalk her, I feel the loss. If I fall behind, I feel the price. So I carry her and resent her — a tenderness with teeth in it. She vanished into herself. I kept writing. I kept trying to hold what could not be held. We make each other grow. My brilliant friend — you made the dark look clear. You cut the world right near. I followed close, I learned the bend — my brilliant friend. The want, the theft, the wound, and the well — my brilliant friend. My brilliant friend…
