2: wanting

the cacti point their thin fingers outwards
and i have nothing to say, nothing new
that could help. every day i think i cry more
than all the days before. when i am cheery i say:
look, isn't it glorious that one can love this hard,
this large? that your chest can be unscrewed, opened
up, emptied even of air? isn't it magical to be here,
a person, to be able to give your whole self
away, like a trinket, a throwaway present? and when
the aching hits me again, i shudder, clasp at thighs,
feel a great pile of burning begin inside of me:
i want i want i want, i want what i had and i want
what i want; and if not that, if it is impossible
to feed my desire, then at least rip it away from me,
do not leave me here thirsting, alone. either i should
receive, or i should cease to want. why could my skin
not be thicker, my feet more sturdy on ground?
why could i not, instead, have taped up my chest
instead of unfolding it, why couldn't i instead
secure my singular self? at least i know
i could not have known. at least this journey
led to some new lighting, a portion of sky
i could not have seen before. maybe there will be
more. maybe the wanting will wilt away. maybe
i will rise, unthirsty, undemanding, and toss
my head away if i meet him in the street.
who ever knows what will come. i did not see
it all, could not have told you how the days
would pile and spill, would make what they made.