I never danced to Clay Aiken because
I never learned his song.
I never hurt my friends and
I never lie to them either.
I never woke up in the morning
with fingernail marks on my palms
and a scabbed-over bottom lip.
I never fell in love with the
cute cashier who compliments
me when I wear my hair down.
I never wanted to cuss at my teachers.
I never drove my brother’s car
into the wood pile because I couldn’t
tell the clutch from the accelerator.
I never wanted to scream so loud
that the ceiling would cave in
and bury the world in dust.
I never ripped my jeans and
scraped my elbow and bloodied
my palms because I was clumsy.
I never hated myself because
of something she wrote on
her livejournal.
I never played my Japanese rock
music too loud and
I never terrified my neighbors.
I never scratched obsessively
at my legs until they bled.
I never stole him from her.
I never cried in the sixth
grade locker rooms.
I never wanted to kill
someone for ending a sentence
with a preposition.
And I never, never ever, say
I love you first.