the comparison doesn’t **** me. i could look at their thin arms or beautiful hair and still
somehow find my place. it’s the irony, the postmonition – the
afterthought, like they are now,
like i may, will become.
i tell you it’s awkward. mostly i just
can’t look them in the eye, like i am indebted to them,
infinitely,

forever the backformation that reduces them to footnotes. i know their stories;
the ones intertwined with yours, once upon a time hinging on your
exhalations, existing only
within the confines of your frighteningly tidy room
and between your muscular thighs.

i know them because they are now mine.