Each night I find myself
grieving the death of
my unborn adolescent self,
the miscarriage of a body
which was already alive
but never dared to live.
How broke do I have to be
to put all the pieces
back together again?
Time’s only direction
is forward.
My mind’s only direction
is backward.
I only know how to speak in words
I didn’t have enough courage
to pronounce in the past.
My eyes only know how to stare
at suns already set and crescents
which are now full moons.
My heart has never loved before
and now it’s trying to do it
like a sixteen-year-old.
My unborn adolescent self,
the miscarriage of a body
which wasn’t really alive
and dares to live now
when it is too late.