I want to be
feeble and ethereal,
my presence a silent grace,
like a long forgotten goddess.
I want the prowess
of a ****** hunter
bubbling under my skin
so strongly
that I will burn up
and create a new sun.
Is it so wrong
that I want to drop
everything
and run?
I want to gorge myself
on the fruit of the earth,
like Persephone,
and doom my heart
to a half realized death.
I want to starve my body
of the world
until I am frail and small,
so I can hide my
paper thin fingers
in the pages
of books,
hoping to take root
in imagined heroes
that do not regret like I do
and did not wait
too long.
I want to stay
with what I know
and
I want to vanish into
thin air.
I want to be
everywhere.
I am a living, breathing
paradox.
I do not care,
though my heart flutters
at the idea
of packing a suitcase
and getting on the next flight
or staying here
another night.
All I know for sure
is this:
I want
to feel alive.