I wanted sixteen sweet things.
Like the perfect boy,
And the perfect party,
And the perfect dress,
And all the perfectly material things
That I lied and said I didn’t really want.
Instead of the sixteen sweet things,
My mother gave me a birthday corsage,
Because that’s what she and her sisters
Used to get for their sweet, sweet day.
But my birthday wasn’t in the seventies
Like hers.
And her birthday wasn’t on senior prom
Like mine.
What a grim reminder to my freshman self:
There wouldn’t be sixteen sweet things,
No perfect boy to take me,
No perfect party to go to,
No perfect dress to wear,
Just sixteen wilting flowers to wear on my wrist.