Who decides to trust first?
Or, rather, who decides to let go,
fall into uncertainty,
not knowing if they will be caught?

Who decides to be vulnerable?
Or, instead, who decides to send a message in a bottle out to sea,
expose themself entirely,
not knowing who they are divulging their life to?

Who decides to ask first?
Or, maybe, who decides to jump off of a cliff,
leave the instructor to secure the carabiner,
not knowing if love or death awaits them at the bottom?

Who decides to be?

Or, perhaps, who decides to fuck it?
Who decides to FUCK all human perception and just LET ME FUCKING BE?

Who decides to chill?

Who decides to not curse in a poem?

Who decides anything?

No, really, who?

Who decides what I should do with my life?

Who decides that I am so sick of people making decisions for me?

On that same note, who decides that I don’t want to do anything but eat chips and lie in bed all day and watch TV and text my friends and not do anything because nothing feels like it has any meaning anymore?

Who decides to end this poem?

Who decides to keep writing?

Who?