Future is a word synonymous with infinite post-notes, whiteboards and pins.I map its trajectory by a constellation of papertrails.

You see,

I’ve invested eternities in planning futures That may never be.

It distracts me from eye contact with the present,

Keeps my gaze away from resource mirages,

From the nerve-ridden, caged lungs now.

The now gives me anxiety.

In this ticking clock,

Sand-draining now,

I am scared, uncertain— a body of roulette tables and gambles I’m not ready to make.

I am only a betting woman when it is sink or swim.

On other days,

In this Las Vegas mouth of mine,

“What if” sounds safe than “I am”.

My hands are rubbed raw from rolling snake eyes,

From praying that something will land in my favor.

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