Russian Roulette

I've been playing Russian Roulette with my future. Every time I fornicate, I pull the trigger on my hopes and dreams, and on the other side I cringe, hoping that I didn't empty the barrel of the bullet that will tear my aspirations to pieces with the words, "I'm pregnant" engraved on the shell. The saddest part is that I'm the culprit and the victim. I've taken my future captive and made it a slave to my sins. There's no happy ending in this game, because we already know the wages of sin. Something has to give... death to my dreams? Or death to the sin that keeps me from winning? The choice is mine, for now.

This poem is about: 
Me
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