illegible intuition

my gut’s been gently torn in half

by my unborn days of future past,

they play a game of tug-o-war

with my trusty organs, on my back

and i fear becoming riddled with

the illness of regret—

but i can’t neglect the fret

of all the choices i have yet

so i soak in stress and doubt and hope,

like a slivered bar of wet hand soap

and i can’t forget the bet that those

decisions yet to fret on won’t

tear in two my organs more,

or rip apart my heart the most