Desire

by Columbine

This thing inside me
Like my pancreas, or my memory
My kneecap or my sense of humor
Thirsts for blue and green voices through uncertain water
Is fed soundlessly by the taste of cold river
This thing inside me
Like a fetus, eating me
But not of me or this world or any world
Sharp-toothed fancy of my own making
Best of all possible
Ether
Ghost
All possible nothings
But so real to my heart
What am I then, that I so efficiently break myself
What is this thing inside me
That reminds me to be what I can
For fear of what I can not?
Why do I so cherish this blank space
That drives me to pretend I am real?

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