We’re only this age once,
you know. Someday twenty
or thirty years from now I’ll
whine and sigh at a bathroom
mirror about how smooth my
shoulders used to be when I
was young. It might make me
cry. It might make the mirror
uncomfortable, not knowing
how to soothe me without
getting more involved than
it really wants to be. I’ll punch
the mirror in the face because
I’m feeling angry and don’t
have a healthier available
outlet. I’ll want sex real bad
because I’m feeling vulnerable
but kind of strong and sexy too
because I just fucking killed
that mirror like I get paid by
the hour to be a total badass.
Since this is my poem and I
am in control, there’ll be
someone there who wants
to have sex with me and
thinks it’s hot that I just
destroyed the bathroom mirror.
Neither of us will have to go
to work in the morning.
It will be the best night
I’ve had in a long time.
