Drawing Straws

I keep drawing straws—

each one shorter than the last,

like fate is shaving inches

off my hope

with careful hands.

I tell myself it’s random.

Chance.

Bad timing.

A season that just won’t turn.

But the pile at my feet

says otherwise.

Every time I reach in,

I already know

what my fingers will find—

the splintered end,

the one that means

not this time,

not for you,

try again with less to stand on.

I’ve learned to smile

before anyone can pity me.

Learned to nod

like I expected it.

Like disappointment

and I have a private agreement

to meet here.

It’s strange

how a person can grow smaller

without anyone noticing—

how hope can shrink

quietly,

like a wick burning low

in a room no one enters anymore.

Still, I keep reaching.

Because somewhere inside me

there’s a stubborn pulse

that refuses to believe

this is the only ending available.

Maybe one day

I’ll draw a long one—

smooth, untouched,

ridiculous in its generosity.

Or maybe

the miracle won’t be the straw at all.

Maybe it will be the moment

I stop measuring my worth

by what I pull from a handful

of borrowed luck.

Maybe it will be

when I finally let go of the cup,

open my palm,

and decide

I was never meant

to gamble

for a life

that was already mine.