Regrets
I write my own praises, dictating stories to muckrakers. Advisors insist on it.
I ran for office to serve. Tragedy. Much is given, much is expected.
I spout platitudes with such grace, it scares me.
Advisors expect me to conduct myself with grace. Don’t show feelings.
Constituents expect a shining prince, savior of liberalism.
I drink copiously, the moon as my witness. I can’t contain the weight of demands, desires.
I wake up on stairwells and in closets, hangovers uniquely my own machination.
I feel failure pirouetting, a taunting ballerina. She’s right to taunt.
But I’m not allowed to regret.
From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri.
Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. He is the recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train. His story, “Strangers,” was nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Mir-Yashar’s work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as (mac)ro (mic), Runcible Spoon, JAB Fiction and Poetry, Unstamatic, and Ariel Chart.
Please support the site by purchasing one of my books on Amazon. Check out Quitting The Grave, a murder mystery set on the Oregon Trail. Plus, don't forget my other books: They Both Loved Vonnegut, Ahab's Adventures in Wonderland, and Picasso Painted Dinosaurs.