You don't watch me, so with any luck you'll never even know this poem existed. But if you do, by chance, or not at all by chance, stumble upon these words, and you know, somehow, inexplicably, or perhaps beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this poem is about you, I'd just like to say I'm sorry for it. I don't feel this way except I do. Maybe it's only because I had a late start to all of this but fourteen just seems so young. When you get to where I am right now, which is sadly not too far off when compared to the hundred or so years our bodies are expected to hold out for, you'll start to wish you had the last few years back to just be a kid and not have to worry about the shit stacking up on the horizon. You may feel that way already. The difference is you still have the time to do something about it. Days don't yet hold the same significance to you as weeks or months or years -- time is still your friend. And I know, despite your age, you've had a tougher life than I have, and I know you've dealt with problems I may never encounter, and some I deal with nearly everyday, and I know life may be forcing you to grow up, but nobody ever said you had to do it so fast. Let your skin harden where you need it the most, but don't, do not, do not let the calluses cover your body just yet. Give it some time. And hold onto that time. Don't let it slip through your fingertips like so many grains of sand. You'll miss it dearly when it's gone.

Just to be clear, I am by no means puritanical about sex. Premarital sex, sex between minors, and even sex between a (consenting) minor and an adult are surprisingly all okay in my book. Unprotected sex is silly, but not unforgivable. I would never condemn you for what you did, because, logically, I find nothing wrong with it.

But it still feels just so wrong.