just one thing
she aches for just one thing.
a talent, a hobby, an obsession, a skill.
an instinct.
something she does best.
somewhere she shines, confounds, leaves others in the dust.
a thing that screams,
“here is why I exist on this stupid, swirling,
space-speck.”
an action to justify her reaction.
a place she can go
to say something that makes people listen.
to do something that makes them want to watch.
without that thing, is she just flailing through life?
just failing through life?
a paint splatter on the wall of ambition.
a waste of energy.
a mosquito buzzing moronically around the light of potential,
burning up before she even gets close.
where did they find their things?
these infants already orbiting their planetary purpose?
these moguls who walked, like an arrow — effortlessly —
into the heart of a thing that makes the masses drool
to inhale the same oxygen?
every time she starts, it’s
two steps forward, one step back
two steps forward, one step back
(only on the dead ends can she race headlong)
this is not living. this is pathetic.
this is the insanity stitched into her DNA.
she sits and spins, clutching
never claiming.
late. under-qualified. pointless. disappointing.
SHE SHOULD KNOW THIS BY NOW.
desperate for one thing,
doomed to have no thing.
