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
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.”