I’ve lost my appetite
for having an appetite.
If pieces of your life die
and you die a little with each death
how much do you have to lose
before you are no more?
I’m thinking not many,
not for me at least. I’m thinking
all the little losses were just
needles reminding me of the first cut
and I’ve lost the desire for desire
as a result. I’ve got no sense
that being alive
requires more of me
than existing does.
What does it matter
if I covet better
experiences, more justice,
less anguish
for myself and others
in an anguished world? Those
are on the other side
of a universe I can’t imagine,
a system in the sky I cannot
grasp. I only pretend to
because someone out there
hasn’t died as much as I have,
not yet. They haven’t reached
my limit. They haven’t
had their eyes go dark
and their longing
fossilize.