My school hosted a party
for the students whose work
was entered in our high school literary magazine.
I read my poem
out loud for the first time.

It was there my English teacher told me,
You’re such a good writer.
I’m so proud of you.
And he hugged me
a little too long
to be platonic,
my chest pressed
tightly against his.

I walked home in the dark
with questions,
the leftover vegetable tray in my hands,
the poetry tucked under my arm,
the scent of cologne
unfamiliar and unwanted
on my neck.