They offered happiness, fueled by
approval of men, the temporary
nod, the golden wink, the momentary
reach in my direction, barely complete,
the “Atta boy” before shoving me into
the next glorious trial, impossible goal
of hoping your vanishing prizes may
transform someday into permanence,
into the eternal sense of OK my soul drags
heart and body through desert to attain.
It’s maddening, exhausting in its perpetual nature,
this want that feels like need, feels like holy for an instant,
feels like need, like pulling into an anxious, frustratingly constant, perpetual, yawning chasm of NEED.
Craving
the approval
of you who shall never
finally approve me.
Will you?