Barely seventeen yet seemingly certain of her path.
Asking about her future was requesting a prophecy
With a projection of confidence, albeit false,
And her own expectation of perfection.
Weak lies told to mask a truth shrouded in uncertainty
Meant only to maintain a self-manufactured image.
The fear of making mistakes imprisoned and silenced her,
Preventing a reveal of honesty until it was almost too late.
The initial choice threatened to make her miserable,
Wrongness a plague to every inch of her body and soul.
Righting the situation slowed and hurried time,
Both encouraging and challenging her perceptions of self.
For once, intuition guided her actions,
Unphased by the temptation to overthink,
As if possessed by some spiritual being,
Finally sure she was making the right choice.
