What do I want?
Something's awake inside me; a realization of everything I don't have. Desires unquenchable dance tauntingly across articles and images curling fingers at me begging me to join.
But what do I want?
Every place I haven't been, experience I haven't touched, every incandescant sensual moment whispers like a ghost with warm electric lips flitting against my ear lobes and pleading me to touch, to taste, to enjoy the wonders they wish to throw at my feet.
Damn it what do I want?
Loss makes me remember what I never had; what might have been. What became fantasty seemingly at my hands. Sick. Sands of a beach I've never stood upon slipping delicately through my young and trembling fingers.
What in God's name do I want?
"Naked vulnerability"
Poke. Prod. Dissect. Examine.
"Child. New specimen."
Disgusting revulsion. Where the fuck's a place to hide?
"Yes, but look at the immature tearing; the damage."
"You are right, this damage is irreparable. Scar tissue will not recover; regeneration gone the way of the unicorns."
How will I ever know what I want now?
Despair? No, I've passed that in this cyclical journey. Resignation to a point where my duality separates to form completely different entities far from isoterric. Divided asunder by some introvertly sharpened rapier. Defiance of Dante's hell fire stands in the mirror facing the once vitriolic charr of itself, idenified previously as Resignation.
What was I asking again?
Who cares.
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