The Empty Booth

The neighbor walks past at eight in the morning,

her cardigan buttoned up to her chin,

heading toward the polling place I pass

every time I leave my building.

I'm twenty-three now

and I didn't vote

when I was twenty-two,

didn't vote when I was old enough to own that choice.

Someone asked me why last week.

I said I wasn't sure.

That I didn't feel right.

That I didn't trust my own mind to choose.

All lies with roots in a truth

I couldn't articulate—

I was afraid of making it mean something,

of standing in that booth

and knowing that whatever I marked

was mine, entirely,

and I couldn't blame the system

or the options

or the feeling that nothing I did

would actually matter anyway.

It's easier to not choose

than to choose and be wrong.

It's easier to watch the neighbor

walk toward her booth

than to walk into mine.

The cardigan turns the corner.

I turn the corner too,

in the opposite direction,

still empty-handed,

still unchosen,

still mine.