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.