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.