On my birthdays I wish I was a hobbit because
that way, at least, I can’t be forgotten about.
I know I’ll remember to give people presents
when my birthday comes around, because
I’ll take any opportunity to tell people I care
(because otherwise they might forget me),
and then the days that come wouldn’t be awful.
Except then on their birthdays I would just be
forgotten, and forgotten, over and over,
every single birthday another chance to hurt
and though the people who said happy birthday to me
would make me feel for a second that I might
be worthy of noticing or of effort or of anything –
it somehow would always leave me feeling lost.
But if I was a hobbit, maybe I wouldn’t be afraid
to be forgotten, maybe I’d love those who
remembered instead of mourning those who didn’t;
maybe I would run through the hills on my
eleventy first birthday crying yes, yes, let’s go
to the banners and the bunting and the happiness
where I am here and you will never forget about me.