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I Really Should Know Better

The pattern was plain,

woven long before my hand touched it.

Still I pressed the thread,

as if insistence could alter the loom.

I mistook repetition for chance,

called the bruise a blossom,

the silence a promise.

Each step was a lesson

I had already learned,

yet I walked it again—

not out of faith,

but out of refusal to turn.

So here I stand,

chalk in my palm,

the same equation

scratched across the board.

And the answer,

unchanged,

waits for me to admit

I really should know better.