Two stories showed up at my door.
One I had promised another,
the other, promised to me.
The first an obligation that’d pay my bills,
the other, a seductress I let in to entice me,
her existence the sole reason for my being.
When before I’d have chosen who’d stay,
I’ve begun to let them both play
in the expanses of my mind,
acutely aware of whom I am honest to
even as I am
of where my loyalties lay.
“That mistress,” they’d call her,
those tiny voices of reason
planted in my head;
stripping her, they hope,
of dignity and respect
(and, thus, the purpose for her existence).
But peek-a-boo,
they take their turns,
in unravelling to me,
one intricate weave at a time,
the plot that’d be
the story of my life.
These days, there’s always
a little story at my door,
unsure if I’d take the cue
but prodding me to follow it through;
waiting for me to help it grow,
hoping I’d make it my own.
A new beginning 