It never looks like me, the person in the mirror, the black script reads. She looks like everyone else. I look around, not seeing anyone else in the hall, except for a few loiterers down by the doors to the lunchroom. I keep reading. She’s like every woman on his arm—the same hair, the same clothes, the same smile, because to beat she has to compete, right? I stood in front of the mirror this morning, a mouthful of toothpaste and my hair tangled by your fingers. You sucked my lips swollen last night, and I can still smell your kisses on my skin. The world swims, how hard I’m used by you. How
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