every birth is a prophecy,
but maybe the stars fell short
the night I was conceived.
perhaps I was born mid-collapse
when the universe was already folding in on its own syntax.
My name is a half-finished incantation
and I was abandoned at the altar of completion.
sometimes I think
my luck is a living thing,
a small god that feeds on disappointment,
licking my palms clean of hope.
And so, I have learned the geometry of failure:
how every angle of effort bends inward,
And the way reward is a myth built on someone else’s certainty.
my work ripens into nothing.
my prayers evaporate mid-air,
as if ascension itself refuses to bear my weight.
I have seen lesser saints rewarded
for softer devotions.
and here I am,
the patron deity of failure,
kneeling to a god who never looks down.
some nights I imagine the same gods apologising;
Saying they got the equations wrong
still, I keep existing.
out of habit, maybe,
Or out of some obedience
to the machinery of misfortune.
and if this is destiny,
then I am its altar of miscalculation.
after all,
someone has to bear witness
to what it means
to be chosen
by nothing.