Pulp

I’ve memorized every inch
    and scent
               of your flesh,
  know every strand of hair by name
          every muscle by number.
   Your lap forms a perfect cradle for my head.
        Your fingertips read every page of me
             like a novel you just can’t put down
 and digest the fragmented sentences and run-ons alike,
      the poetry and prose,
           the fiction and autobiography.
  Every unwanted page is ripped out
        and lapped up by your dutiful tongue
  chewed to a pulp by your opalescent teeth,
        then spit back out to lie on the floor,
     a forgotten clod of the past
   that can later be reshaped and flattened to create a new page
           for your tender fingers to author.
   If you don’t mind, you’ll serve as my god
          and I will worship you
              and you will mold me
	     and watch me 
         and always be with me, as though conjoined
		   at the small of our backs.
  Ah! I know this sweet fragrance-
      that of grasses and seas
              of bodies and souls.
I welcome it and welcome you and beg of you to stay.
 I’ll crush my leaves for you.
  I’ll come and die for you.
 I offer my breath to you.
   Please take it far away from me.
  I’ll shed my skin of white
                            for that of red,
			       blue, 
      			         purple,
    until you allow me to inhale and
            that precious respiratory contraction
                    will suck you closer to me,
                           suck you into me.
    You will become as much a part of me
      as the purple blood which swirls through my veins.
My breath will be yours.
Your flesh will be mine.

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