I sat across from myself tonight,
While bride-to-be unsealed her preconceived gifts
And thought to myself,
Is that me?


Opening presents,
Silently thanking Cupid for
stabbing her with love
And not a moment too late.


I stared at her, conspicuously,
Hating her more with every rip of waxy paper.
Wondering when it was my turn,
Or if this is my turn
And I am presently missing it.

There she sat,
Flipping my hair and
Raving about boys
She will someday marry.


Looking at me
So distant,
Only a rug separating
Me from my apparant future.

What is she unwrapping?