One day I’m going to wake up and I’m not going
to be seventeen any more. I’m not going to be
in high school. I’m not going to have these pimples.
I’m not going to have the same friends and I might
not like to sing the songs from musicals any more.
I’m not going to be worrying about passing any
classes and having my phone in my back pocket
at all times and maybe I won’t even be in love with
One day I’m going to look at myself and I’m scared
that at thirty, or forty, or fifty-six or seventy, I’m still
going to have that seventeen year-old me hidden
in the lines on my face and I don’t want to know
which year buying acne cream turns into buying
overnight age-renewing skin serums, or which year
I realize that most children will resent their parents
no matter how hard they try or which year
I decide I don’t need to buy a bra that properly
supports my breasts any more.
One day I’m going to walk past a mirror and
be terrified of the stranger that has found its way
into my home.