they tell you to
seek what sets your
soul on fire,
but i have searched
for so long
that nothing is left
of my soul
but ashes

you reach forward,
stretching to take
my hand in yours,
but when i reciprocate
and extend my hand
all my fingers brush
is a cold screen
and i realise
you were just an image,
a figment
of my imagination

the moirai whisper, heads
bent together as they
map out your life
from start to
finish.
but what if you aren’t
satisfied with your future —
do you leave it be,
knowing it’s best to
not anger the fates,
or do you argue your right
to a life
that has not been planned?

we all have our voices

there’s the one made of sunshine and joy
that speaks during the day
the one who laughs at jokes
and smiles and flirts at everyone
the childish one who must be reminded
that the world is not merely light

but then there’s the other
made of tears and night
who pipes up when you lay in bed
and whispers, “you aren’t good enough”
the sorrowful one wise beyond its years
who never fails to remind you
that this is what the world is like