Caterpillars slurp the soup of their own bodies to grow and I can’t imagine we were told that you have to eat your skin and stomach and heart to become something beautiful. I want to read you poetry but your thumb bears down on my lip to expose sharp-wet bone and I’m starving, so I want to bite clean through until you’re gushing copper and salt on my tongue. I don’t, but I think about it. I think about devouring your heart but I won’t even taste myself on your fingers in case I’m not any good. I think maybe kissing with our eyes closed means we’re paying attention or we’re afraid of seeing each other or we just want it warm and dark and quiet while we eat. You tell me this is bigger than us—this is longing with the lights out and you’re trying to take it all in without drowning. It seems selfish, taking it all, so I don’t. I let you have it instead and wonder if my insides are enough to drown in and I think maybe you want to because you haven’t been taught how to swallow. With every stroke we’re unzipped, oil-slick soft light spilling out until I don’t know whose breath I’m holding, until I’m holding nothing at all. ✱✱✱
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