Need becomes a dirty word when you grow up.
Edged in knives and desperation,
it tastes of everything “woman”.
It is the unsightly mess you should have shoved underneath your bed.
Were you born like this or were you taught to be incomplete,
Apologizing for a phantom absence, a make-believe missing.
But now here it is, rooted, halfway between inner child and what-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up.
Hungrier than you remember with keen teeth and eyes and lips exactly like the first ones you kissed.
Doesn’t everything need nurturing,
even this fracturing desire,
even this runaway want.