they call it Fate

as if the stars themselves
care about their broken shoes,
or the way they stumble
into the same mess,
again and again.

It’s easier to blame the sky
than to look down
at the cracked pavement,
at the lazy steps
they keep taking,
hoping the ground
won’t bite back this time.

Fate didn’t make you late.
Fate didn’t spill your drink
or choose the wrong lover
for the fifth time.
That was your hand,
your eyes half-closed,
your heart stuck in neutral.

They talk of destiny,
but it’s the same story —
a coin flipped in a rigged game,
and you keep playing,
pretending the rules
aren’t written in your own handwriting.

Fate, they say,
but they forget:
you built this road.
You just never cared
to read the map.