Some days I don’t want a good heart.
I want the currency of orgasms and shortness of breath.
I want it slow, slow, fast and slow in dizzying repetition.
I want hot wax and cherried lips, and the ease of superficiality.
Some days I don’t want shared interests or conversation.
I want the linguistics of only the body and cries meant for God.
This is the desire of the flesh.
Amen, amen, amen.