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
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