The Weight of Choice

In the booth, the world shrinks, heavy and tight,

a blue mark on my finger, inked proof of intent,

a tremor of firsts, caught in the bitter fight,

a choice whispered soft, on the edge of dissent.

I stumble, my thoughts dance like fireflies lost,

between hope's bright glow and skepticism's cold hand,

each name I scrawl feels like a heavy cost,

my voice a small ripple in a vast, endless sand.