I’ve learned to fear wanting too many things.

The selfishness I’ve harboured as a child has melted from a stain to just a bruise.

The phrase “I want” used to spill from my mouth like blood from a wound

The world could see.

Now its kept deep in my skin and only visible if you look for it.

I can apply ice to freeze desire in its tracks.


For lack of better words, I’ve woven my wants in between my veins-

Slid it somewhere in between the sixth and seventh layer of my skin.

They are receding into the warmth of my lungs,

The soft flesh being coddled by my ribs-

That hand-like cage surrounding my vitals like a gated neighborhood.

All my frail and jaded desires live there now.


The selfishness I paraded as a kid

Began to line my liver like an illness.

So, despite the worry, I’ll say this-

I think I want you.

Don’t guilt me for wanting what I do not need.

This isn’t about you,

Not entirely



This poem is about: 


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