the white picket fence,
portraits, game nights, and pizza nights,
the yearly vacations,
traditions of matching outfits,
i’ll never have those.

the big white dress,
the exchange of i do’s,
and promises of forever and more,
i’ll never have those.

the nursery painted soft green,
tiny shoes lined in a row,
lullabies at midnight,
first steps, first words,
i’ll never have those.

doubts linger,
insecurities arise.
this is because
i’ll never have those.

maybe i have accepted this fate,
this destiny.
maybe i haven’t and hence why such words exist.
maybe writing about it
is the only way i mourn them.
maybe naming the ache
is how i learn to carry it.

maybe this is a cry i don’t admit aloud.
maybe it means i’m still hoping,
even when i say i’m not.
maybe this is how i let go,
a ritual of release for dreams i didn’t choose to lose.