rage is a desire,
scurrying through the marrow of my bones,
flirting with my heartbeat,
the way in earlier years a flush of pleasure
might have traveled through my blood.
oh but these days,
long and tiresome and heavy-hearted,
these days you are a different kind of love:
self-invested, self-seeming.
i give only what is needed,
i lay quietly screaming in the bed at night.
you want, you need. i rage.