You know, there are things
I want to be able to write.
Like falling in love.
Like dying and breathing.
Like knowing what it would have been like
if I had never met you.
And how different I would be,
for being okay, for standing upright
as a girl, for knowing how to breathe
without remembering you have tasted me.
And I can’t.
And this is a shitty poem
that is the closest I will ever come
to writing about you.
Because it will never not have happened,
and I will keep on keeping on.