There Will Be Bad Days by Megan Williams

Maybe it will never be warm again.

Maybe the playground fortune-tellers were wrong

& I will not be married with 5 kids, 7 dogs—

maybe no one will even kiss me again,

not how I want to be kissed, at least,

close-crushed together like my lips

are the last bite of chocolate torte.

Maybe I will keep weighing myself

to know whether I'm happy or sad.

Maybe every unsent letter, bloody hangnail,

toothache, & swallowed scream

haunts my body. Bitter ghosts.

Maybe this grayscale life is all I get:

strip malls, shards of dry toast, slushy roads.

Maybe I am still the little girl who loathes

sled-riding, who stares up from the valley

at the steep, snowy hill dotted

with happier children, & can only wonder

It's all so heavy. What's the point?

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