I kiss your fist, unclenched.

We are lying on your bed,

scrolling through Pinterest.

I have a secret to tell you.

I whisper it into your hair.

_Once, God said heaven_

_was built for me._

_I only believed Him_

_because I feared the dead._

If I had loved you three years earlier,

I might have understood.

Back then, things happened for a reason,

and strawberries tasted like strawberries

because that’s what they were.

Now I know things nobody does.

Now I bury fruit in snow

just to taste the sweet.

Everything is bitter.

I am sixteen.

_Are you still alive?_

I write a word on my tongue.

You wipe it away with your thumb.

That is poetry.

Even as I drown,

I think of you.

I am afraid of endings.

If I never finish the milk,

if I never finish the shampoo,

you will never die.

But then I am stuck here,

on this rotting earth,

eating sesame seeds

and drinking olive oil.

This all started as a word,

then became a sentence.

Now I can’t stop talking

and the water won’t stop running.