Kid, you are coming to the age of knowing
the universe doesn’t care.
No one is measuring
your good deeds
against the prom queen’s
or other heartless bitches
who got rich on Amazon
and sent their dull kids to USC,
kept their grandmothers out of nursing homes.
If you learned nothing
from Friday nights in a bathrobe
yearning for chiseled boys
who wanted
biologically-impossible girls,
swallow this:
The time will come when you won’t give a rat’s.
It will be just a wine bottle flung at the door.
The cruelest irony is still to come—
the moment you raise your face
to the priest making a cross
over you,
you will realize the enormity of love
that was yours all along,
and you’ll need to relinquish everything—
say goodbye to everyone who came
into your life with arms open
saying dance with me, for god’s sake, just dance.
Trish Saunders spent her early years in a small town on the Snohomish River in Washington State. She’s been published numerous places. She currently lives in Seattle, where it rains every single day.
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