I catch glimpses of the future everyday
In the mirror, my face ages in a second, with worry seated in its folds where the ghosts of laughter should sit

I catch glimpses of an empty apartment, white walls and an endless loop of infomercials replacing "hello"s and "how was your day"s
Cheap--because I suffer through a 9-5 for fractional wages
Scraping together rent, nickles and dimes
Frozen-dinner-a-night diets and a phone line--always free

"Should have gone to college." Maybe so. Maybe I didn't get in. Maybe I couldn't wrap my mind around a decision.

I catch glimpses of a generation, my generation, falling head over heels
ring in the pocket, nervous hands, "I do" "I do" "I do"

But I don't.

I never will. Because who loves an ugly duckling with the personality of stale bread?
All frowns, never giggles.
Never jokes and eskimo kisses, never worth a diamond or a pearl.

I catch glimpses of baby bumps
Monkey socks and bassinets, "custard walls or baby's breath blue?"

But you won't find little hands and feet inside my stomach. The closest I come to motherhood is feeding the neighbors' tabby cats when they go to Cabo for the month because, as they say, it takes two to tango and I have three left feet.

I get images of sweat pants and dust on blinds, never open, tears and mediocre movies.
A girl who gets a little older everday and a little closer to dying and a little further down in the hole that is her useless life, and she looks a lot like me.

And then I spit out my toothpaste, wipe my mouth, and pace through the rest of the day.