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“I wish to have them.”
What does that mean?
To “have”
No one can “have” anyone else.
And yet,
We say it as though We can.
As though We can gather everything,
All that We desire,
From another being
And call Them Ours.
It is human to have.
To take,
To consume,
To ransack.
To find what person can be instrumental
And snatch Them up.
To Their detriment?
To Their benefit?
Into the sinking,
Beating,
Pulsing indulgence
Of a heart.

To “have”
What a cruel way to desire,
We scream
And fall
And push
And pull
And love
And hate
Full of every name for every feeling.
We all pray to have
We all pity Our loneliness
Or rather Our guilt.
Guilt of Our greed,
Our conscious
Our subconscious
Our said and unsaid.
To desire the beauty
The peace
The flame
The cold
The heart
The brain
The likeness
The ability to care for others
The need to help
The guts to do it
The eyes that see through to you
The face that treats vision softly
The lips that move with dancing speech
The touch that trickles down your spine
The smell that ignites the senses
The warmth and breath of comfort
Of Another.

We weep at the sight of the loss
We crumble in Their gaze.
If it’s all We give,
Then it’s all We take
And more
And so much more.
Or are We all wrong?
Do our considerations,
And thoughts
And ideas
And policies,
Mean no thing to no person?
But They wonder too,
So how can We be discontented?
If They are so inclined to be the same?
Must We be strong?
For Their sake?
Be the figment that shines so deeply,
They cannot help but love Us.

But it’s all just an inundation
Of words
And feelings
Of anything We can distinguish
From the dark of Our souls,
Which are so enlightened by Their presence
But so gutted by Their absence.

We cannot be but human,
But yet
We are not people.
We are not a committee,
We persist in a writhing mass,
One of disgraceful anguish.
Of Our sins;
Our Wrath
Our Gluttony
Out Lust
Our Envy
Our Greed
Our Pride
And of Our Sloth.

Who are We to have?
Or even to love?
We can barely own Ourselves.
But who am I to judge.
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