My want has teeth. Strong jaws and muscles undeterred by rejections that make fingers falter and thoughts circle like vultures. My want is in the bone and the marrow and it doesn’t matter if it’s smashed, it knits itself clean again. It pulls me forward, forages unbidden, gnaws on obstacles, knows what it’s doing.
I’m conscious of it. It speaks to me at night in spits and squeals. My want grinds things down but it makes nothing smooth. There are jagged edges ahead and but it says to pay them no heed. It takes me onwards even when eyes are covered and agnostic prayers muttered.
I tell myself I’m holding on tight to my want, but its bite is far stronger than my restraint.