I want your teeth in my shoulder like I’m the holy body, with your hands on my hips and our legs intertwined, two trellis vines outside a Capulet’s window, daggers among scattered clothing because we don’t do anything neatly, we just taste sweetly. I want the lights on, like we forgot to account for what they say we are in crowded rooms, like it’s not just our parts fitting together, as if this hand could only make fists outside your womb. Our movements are like abortions, partial births against uterine lining, because when my eyes close you drop down and I am unsure of what this means to me in a survivor’s legacy. Were I to remember a time so regrettable and so spontaneous like a first menstruation I would close my eyes with deeper breaths than deep sea divers know. Put these pearls on like oysters are sacred vessels, put your clothes on any surface but skin, put your heart in my mouth like this is original sin.


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