I.
nothing I write about you is, poetry not really
when it's just memories, and it's just words, and I have nothing poetic to say about this and

II.
if I can make it poetry I won't throw up about it but I could never make this poetry

III.
at least 4 years later she asked me why I never told anyone before her. sooner. ever. why I let you go and do it again. and again. why I let you.

IV.
I didn't tell her it was because-
I couldn't remember exactly and,
I didn't know what was wrong exactly and,
I didn't know what she wanted from me in bed exactly and,
she was above me and my heart was in my throat and this is exactly,
why I didn't tell anyone because
I still can't tell myself it wasn't my fault.