A Thousand Forgotten Dreams

six year old me 
used to buy a new wand
every other week,
– “i’m going to be the next best witch 
in the city, and Hogwarts will have me” –
she wished for endless drapes, 
and shiny, lustrous jewels,
and she wished for spells and charms
to be cast upon all her tomorrows.

eight year old me 
wanted to be 
a ballet dancer,
– “i’ll own the prettiest pair of shoes, 
and they’ll say i resemble a swan” –
dancing her moves through troubles,
and laughing her way through chaos,
through concerts and dances and spotlights 
and through all of her existence.

twelve year old me 
thought i’d grow up to be 
an astronaut, 
– “i wonder how they don’t fall down,
it must feel so good to not fall down” –
dwindling through time and space,
searching, still, Voyager 1,
writing, still, about galaxies of
a different kind, a different might.

sixteen year old me 
wanted to make music; 
raise hell, using only six chords, 
– “i don’t just listen to the lyrics anymore,
i actually feel the instruments speak” –
she ached, to be inspired, and
for her travels to talk of songs,
for her homes to talk of songs,
for her coffin to talk of songs.

eighteen year old me 
wanted to act, 
and assume different skins,
– “they say you have but one lifetime,
now watch me live a hundred” –
to be a part of more than just one tale,
that was all she cared about, and
to own the stage, to own the plays, 
to own the names, to own her names.

twenty-one year old me
struggles to survive, and
has stopped wishing upon stars,
– “i’ve held a thousand dreams over 
in this life alone, it’s time to let them go” –
i don’t believe in charms anymore,
and i haven’t danced in a while,
i know only so much about space 
as i’ve read in encyclopaedias, 
i never found Voyager 1,
now the instruments do not speak to me,
and as it turns out, 
i’ve only ever played 
one role in one lifetime
and i do not think that’s enough,
that’s just not enough. 


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