By Sharitza Pardo

I see her standing in her bright pink leotard

fake microphone in her hands,

ready to sing her heart out to a song

with words she can barely pronounce

at that age, eyes focused and brows furrowed,

her little sister in a bright blue tutu,

curls falling around her shoulders,

shaping her young oval face perfectly,

staring up at her older sister with inspiration

glistening in her eyes.

They are performers, they are young,

they are happy, all they know is they want to entertain.

I want to shout stop singing, stop dancing,

stop entertaining; it’s not worth your time!

You are not 1 in a million, and your sister isn’t either–

think of a hobby that will actually

get you somewhere in life, because if not,

you are going to grow up feeling hopeless,

about a dream impossible to reach.

You are going to be miserable

wanting to sing     every song at work

when you can only take orders from customers.

You are going to lose the spark in your eyes.

I want to rip the microphone out of their hands,

slap real clothes onto their backs,

but then I see the young one’s big,

curios eyes staring at me,

the older one’s confident pose

intimidating me–

so I won’t do it, it’s too cruel–

to rip someone’s dream out of their hands

before they have the chance at making it come true–

Instead of yelling, I’ll smile, clap, tell them

“I want an autograph, for when you’re famous.”