If only my mother were a stronger person,
If she possessed that wildfire instinct
That would let her say, “No,” and mean it,
If the luminescent stars on my ceiling
Would hear my wishes,
And grant them, just once,
If my father were half as great
As his hypocrisy allows him to believe,
If I could jump through that
Picture frame time portal
And link hands with my
Debonair courtier,
Perhaps things would be better.
Perhaps I wouldn’t count my flaws in
One hundred thousand different ways,
And perhaps I’d smile in the mirror,
Removing my magnifying lenses.
Perhaps the numbers I detest the most
Wouldn’t become the binary of my shadows,
And perhaps my inner editor
Would stick to stories and not to life.
But dreams are made of
Gossamer and steel, and
I have not the courage
To wield both.
