OPEN YOUR MOUTH (diary entry on how i yearn intentionally)

Sometimes boys spit down your throat when they kiss you to make sure you never forget them, never get them out of your system. There is no grave holier than my mouth, one that carries every love between teeth and tongue, and when it spits blood it is reminded of every malady it ever hosted. It is quite beautiful to think of the virus inside of you, how it tends to grow like the oh-so-adored boy who sprained his ankle when he was little, but now he is tall and running and you cannot tell he’s been hurt for he is forever on his feet. Sometimes he steps on your hands for he hates touch and the name of someone like you (like you, like you – you never quite knew what ‘someone like you’ meant) It often seems like every crack in my bones is caused by you but I could never be bitter. I could be touched with one finger and still remember it years later. I am touched in ways God couldn’t. If I extracted my malady out of my heart I am sure (at times) I would be loveless. This is, however, not true. I taste the glue and then wonder why my tongue is sealed to your jaw – ‘it must be God’ I say ‘who wants me this close, this desperate.’ Faith never looked sacred pressed on a naked back, but divinity is when I make you believe laying and lying here with you is pure religion, pure God’s will. It is not, and if it is, it surely must be because all saints of the blue gathered to work through me. This is, however, not true. I chose this – I poured the glue on my tongue and pressed it on your finger, I am here on purpose. It is not God’s will – it’s mine. Wet and quivering like my bottom lip the day you slammed the door shut and hit the back of my ankles.

I wish to grow tall like you and to resent someone like me.