Villanelle of the Want That Eats Me Alive

I want him with a hunger that feels wrong, a fever that gnaws straight through muscle and throat— this ache is a wound that refuses to close.

I keep pretending I can stay strong, but his absence drags me under like a sinking boat; I want him with a hunger that feels wrong.

He doesn’t see me—not my skin, not my song—. I’m a shadow begging light it can’t remotely coax; this ache is a wound that refuses to close.

I tell myself I’ll move on, play along, but every night I fold into the shape of his ghost; I want him with a hunger that feels wrong.

It’s pathetic, the way I let this go on, how I kneel inside a feeling he never chose; this ache is a wound that refuses to close.

And if loving him damns me, then damn me lifelong— because even hell feels softer than losing that hope. I want him with a hunger that feels wrong, and this ache is a wound that refuses to close.

Ariana Hunter