Dear regrets,
I don’t own you.
I won’t even keep you
in the garage next to
the cob web covered
gas cans.
I don’t understand how
people, so many people,
hang onto you by their
teeth—like some masterful
trapeze act–swinging and spinning
over the audience.
I need to thank you,
though-for staying away–
and allowing me to fearlessly
fly without net to become
the woman I am.
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