Real women don’t have regrets.
Healthy psyches let go, move on,
perfectly contented with the life they call home.
Not me. I got a busload of wish-I-hads up this fat wazoo.
So many lives inside me, a veritable encyclopedia of missed chances,
I could pen a dictionary of definitions for lost, baby – try again.
I could delineate the etymology of holding-on-to-failed-opportunities.
The hands I didn’t shake.
The bus I never boarded.
The eyes I didn’t meet.
The friend I left on the beach.
Stop picking your nails.
Don’t scratch your head in public.
Keep your knees together.
Stand up straight.
Why didn’t they say: look in people’s eyes?
hug like you mean it,
don’t be afraid of your boss,
or don’t go out after midnight?
OK they actually did say the last one, but
I was waaaaay too smart to listen.
Stop squinting – that’s not going to make it any better.
SIGH – another regret.
Hey, I’m going to ditch the many lives
I could have led, but didn’t,
the songs I didn’t sing,
the nagging list of dustbowl accomplishments.
I’m going to boogie
across this dismal span
heading into who-knows-where;
I’m dancing beyond these raging currents
singing like a banshee for all I’m worth.
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