i stopped naming them
after burying my third dog.
they always died while teething,
my poor little dogs.
everything dies while teething
the poor little dreams,
the friends you fought and played with
in your childhood,
the poems you wrote and rewrote
all while depressed
the girls you loved and thought you’d die
if they ever walked out of that door,
those relationships die while teething.
and young men specifically die so much
just before they get to reveal
what they fully can.
and now i don’t get attached any more,
because the moment you do,
they just die while teething.