The Oceanic Bridge of Regrets

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Real women don’t have regrets.

Healthy psyches let go, move on,

perfectly contented with the life they call home.

 

Not me. I got a busload of wish-I-hads up this fat wazoo.

So many lives inside me, a veritable encyclopedia of missed chances,

I could pen a dictionary of definitions for lost, baby – try again.

I could delineate the etymology of holding-on-to-failed-opportunities.

The hands I didn’t shake.

The bus I never boarded.

The eyes I didn’t meet.

The friend I left on the beach.

Stop picking your nails.

Don’t scratch your head in public.

Keep your knees together.

Stand up straight.

 

Why didn’t they say: look in people’s eyes?

hug like you mean it,

don’t be afraid of your boss,

or don’t go out after midnight?

OK they actually did say the last one, but

I was waaaaay too smart to listen.

Stop squinting – that’s not going to make it any better.

 

SIGH  – another regret.

 

Hey, I’m going to ditch the many lives

I could have led, but didn’t,

the songs I didn’t sing,

the nagging list of dustbowl accomplishments.

I’m going to boogie

across this dismal span

heading into who-knows-where;

I’m dancing beyond these raging currents

singing like a banshee for all I’m worth.

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