Acire

“Choose,” he whispers

in my head.

Two doors.

Two choices.

The decision is there

waiting to be made,

this age old

cliche torment

in which your very being is at war with itself:

do you choose who you are,

or who you want to be;

do you choose yourself,

or your family;

do you choose happiness,

or responsibility?

Impending doom

its always there,

just looming.

Theres no point in being so tortured over it,

but i dread the day

I’ll have to make the decision.