I’m on the cusp of freedom,
but it’s one left-turn from losing faith,
falling hard for hopelessness,
like young, obsessive love,
wasting in the waters,
wallowing while grinning,
a drunk slur melting my expression,
revelling in ruminance.
This pity too is one deep breath
from the imminent escape,
the blatant understanding that there’s no such thing as fate,
unless we take the concept to be nothing in itself,
the story you have written, given to your younger self,
impossibly told back to you, before you had begun,
and begin you must, it waits for none, it has begun,
it has begun.