By Seana Sperling

Starvation is the best word,
I can assign to my feelings.
I feel anemic.
It’s as if a giant proboscis,
Has been draining my blood.
I’m too weak to stand.

Then I come to you,
With your two hours of freedom per week.
I feel guilty,
Taking your time.
I wonder, if I’m in the way.

Then other things,
Drop from the sky,
Occupying even more of your freedom.
I worry, that even my help,
Becomes a burden.

If I am a burden,
Please don’t tell me.

It’s not that I don’t have,
Enough to do.
There is plenty,
But these tasks,
Feed me little,
And I’m not sated.

I sometimes feel,
I need to rescue you,
From the trappings,
Of your self-detention.
But unwinding the bonds reveals,
Deeper entanglements and,
There is never enough time.

Would I take you for granted,
If I had more time?
Would love diminish?

Or, would it take hold,
Like the roots of a tree,
Embracing the earth?