Blistering Obsessions

I watched you holding hands and the little voice, the dark voice,

Whispered behind me, "You don't deserve that. Look! Yes, look! THAT you will not have. THAT?! Oh no no, you don't deserve that."

I looked over my shoulder in indignation and rage at the demon with his whispering, crushing voice

But I had to hide the fear in my eyes.

I wanted my children. I became like a child, calling for its mother,

A mother calling for her child.

I longed for the sense of a complete self, the whole person that I felt in my children's presence

And in the good job I did as their mother

Or even when I didn't, oh how they held me up anyway.

I wanted to discover you and open myself to you.

I wanted to hold your hand and be the painter of stars in your eyes.

I dreamed a thousand different dreams of you and me, holding hands.

But the hand you hold is a hand you dream is softer and sweeter than my own.

You didn't see my hand held out. You didn't see me.

I am the invisible, the unconsidered.

You walked on without a notice of my hands, hoping for touch.

When the voice whispers and the calamity of doubt crawls in,

Slipping into the space between my secret desires and my deepest fears,

I long for the familiar - the soft head of a child against my shoulder,

Soothing my soul, wanting nothing more than that.

I am a normal human, I guess, to want what I know is sweet.

But more often now, I am a woman with passion and love in limbo,

Watching hands being held and hearts dancing in sparks.

Longing like a child for its mother, a mother for her child.