I like that when I kiss you, it tastes like mint and cigarette smoke.
Truth is, I don’t want your soft. Your tender. Your merry-go-round type love with all the same scenery. I want to be opened up. Your fingernails at my naval. Your teeth on my throat. On the throb of my pulse. I want you starving. Want you on your last legs. Want you hungry for blood. It’s not pretty. It’s not the kind of thing you tell your friends about. It’s the kind of thing that, once over, you come back normal, as if awakening from a dream in which you have been spoon-fed your every shameful desire. Why? You ask why. You ask why I need this from you, why your mouth-on-mouth, hips-meet-hips is not enough. There is no clear answer. I tell you I want to jump off cliffs with you. I want to find proof of other inhabitable planets. I want to know I’m really here. These are not answers; these are my poor attempts at explanation. These are the closest I can get to verbalizing the need. The thing that beats its fists inside me. That roars. That spits. That makes idle threats. The closest I can get:
I want to forget we are human. And that it is not enough.