Maybe I’ll be homeless
and my children will pretend they don’t know me as they pass me on the street holding the hands of their children.
Maybe I’ll be an eighty year-old bachelorette.
Maybe I’ll die before I’m thirty and my loved ones won’t know how to go on without me.
Maybe my children will win Nobel Peace Prizes and thank me for all my love and support during their interviews.
Maybe I’ll fail at everything I’ve ever wanted.
Maybe I’ll be my father’s daughter and have six children with four different men and raise them all under the same roof.
Maybe I’ll publish a best-seller and retire at thirty-five.
Maybe I’ll be poor and live alone.
Maybe I’ll go to jail and teach women to write and preach feminism in the communal showers.
Maybe I’ll live in the woods and die of an undiscovered brain tumor and be left to rot.
Maybe I’ll never marry and adopt a child from every continent and have the whole world to tuck in at bedtime.
Maybe no one will remember me after I die.
Maybe I’ll wear my hair in dreadlocks and create collages and collect spoons.
Maybe I’ll learn to sew and never buy another piece of clothing.
Maybe I”ll die a tragic death and my writing will be discovered twenty years later and I’ll be immortalized.
Maybe my soul won’t cross over.
Maybe I’ll travel the world.
Maybe I won’t.
Maybe I’m the happiest girl in the world.
Maybe I’m the center of the Universe.
Maybe I’m a bad person.
Maybe this is a memory an older me is having.
Maybe I’ll take over the world.
Maybe I’ll work at the checkout line at a grocery store.
Maybe I’ll commit suicide, because the world is just too much sometimes.
Maybe I’ll get incredibly fat and won’t be able to control my farts.
Maybe I’ll become the smallest breasted sex icon.
Maybe I have the whole world in my belly.
Maybe I’m God.
Maybe you are too.
Maybe I’m ugly.
Maybe everybody I’ll ever meet will fall in love with me.
Maybe they already do.
Maybe I’ll change the world.
Maybe I already have.