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by meghan tennison
do you feel the electricity, transferring from your body to mine, running through the tunnels in our chests, roaring like a million different trains? do you think if we created enough friction we could set ourselves on fire? since it’s a love fire, do you think it would be pink, with heart-shaped flames?
your ears are the kind whose lobes glide down and disappear, attached to the homey skin of your head. if you took both of those ears off and conjoined them, you’d make a heart.
i want to teethe on your brain.
yelp,
howl,
ferment.
sleep with me in a low-calorie paper house. let’s stock up on furniture that leaks color all over the floor. visitors can leave their hand prints on the walls. let’s throw away our matches we use to set off our skulls’ fire alarms. isn’t it getting dull? wouldn’t you rather be a body of fruit trees and modestly low-grade farm land, rather than a body of taxi lights and chocolate pudding? your colors were not dyed by a machine and your skin was not fabricated for a school project. you are really orange juice and sunlight and your pores rumble with all the stars that fill them. real stars, not the ones we’ve made up to feel less lonely. my favorite words aren’t in the dictionary, they’re in your movements and buried in your hair; greasy, chlorinated, salty hair full of dandruff, hairbrush lint, and city smog. i love how different we are. i love every aura you radiate. i love you.

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