which means I still believe what the world has taught me

to believe—that life will not take my breath away

unless it’s taking my breath away at the summit

of Kilimanjaro, or atop the crest of a sixty-foot

skateboard ramp on the Pacific Coast.

I don’t yet know Natalie, who will be sipping whiskey

at the end of my bed when she tells me she would not choose

the sudden disappearance of her cerebral palsy,

that the hard drive of her mind would crash

if she woke up tomorrow and could cartwheel

the beach, if suddenly it took her less than thirty minutes

to lace her winter boots. When Natalie says this, I wake up

to a truth—that I’ve not wanted my fortune told

because I’ve not wanted to know

that my fortune will be mostly change.

So much change. I’m twenty years old

and don’t know that what I’m most afraid of

is change, which is the only promise

this life can keep, and aside from my DNA,

there is no test I can take to find out the rest of it,

or the unrest of it, how there will be years I’ll know

so much bitterness my heart will stop walking

its talk. Lovers will point to my chest

and say, You can’t feel anything, can you?

I’m twenty years old and don’t know who I am

going to lose because of the ways I’m going to stay

the same, then later because of the ways I’m going

to change too much. I mean, my god is gonna change.

My pronouns are gonna change. My body is gonna change

not because of my DNA but because a tick is gonna bite me

and that little monster is gonna mess with my life

more than a parade of homophobes could ever dream of,

but love will still throw me over her shoulder and carry me up

every story I’ve ever told myself so I can see what’s true,

and what’s true is I can’t always tell the difference

between my gifts and my tragedies. What I’ve lost

in health I’ve gained in access to my own empathy.

So when I wish to not be sick, I’m not absolutely certain

I’d be happier if that wish came true, and the same goes

for what muzzled me, what held me down and shut me up,

what locked my voice box is also what taught me

how to carve keys from poetry, and now my words

are so good at coming to my own rescue,

fire trucks pull over to let my voice through.

Hold my tongue and I promise my teeth

will find a way to tell you, If I’d been born without lifelines,

I would have written them myself, ’cause I am writing this

at the exact age my mother was when she first got symptoms,

and just like everyone else I have no clue

what tomorrow will sing, or scream, what I will feel

or what I won’t. I wake up every morning and see