What-Ifs

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What if?
What if there were little toes
on a little boy,
with my hair and his eyes?
What if he happened?

What if what if what
if I…
What if I could?


No.
Not ever, not now,
that's not gonna happen.
No pitter-patter. No little toes.
No little dark hairs, curling like mine, or
little green eyes, teasing with mischief like his.
But what if…?

All I have left are What-Ifs, and
Not-Gonna-Happens.
It’s the What-Ifs that stab you, tear you, shred you

I’m reassured that I’ll still be wanted, needed,
loved, despite my newfound
imperfections.

I’m reassured that there are
still ways for a future like him.

But not really.
There won’t ever be the same little toes
on a little boy
with my hair, and his eyes.


But what if?



--

I know I said I hate poetry and all this is terribly hypocritical, but I'm being made to write for this class. This is what came out of our "autobiographical poetry" assignment, I guess. And I guess I liked writing it and working with it.

But I didn't want to just post it. It's meant to be spoken, quietly, and I don't really trust others to get the rhythm really right in just reading it. The last time someone spoke my poetry for me (in 2004) at an open mic ...day, the rhythm he chose to read it at made my skin crawl. I know, picky for someone who can't stand this stuff. So... I decided to actually use my recording equipment for once.

text & voice (c) me, Coribee, of course.


Please don't make fun of my tiny voice D:
I swear I'm not a kid~