by Scarlett Peterson


It takes more than a decade to know 
        why the tomboy and I hated each other
              from fifth grade forward, her face popping 

up in my people you may know
        alongside another woman’s
                like my profile picture, my lover laughing.             

Look, I think, at all we saw in each other
        so early— that half of ourselves that we hated,
                how easy to recognize it elsewhere

before seeing it in the self. 
        How easy to hate what you are 
                before you know it.