My mother held me in her womb, did what she could to keep me alive until I was cut out screaming and covered in fat. It’s where I developed a taste for it and I have been coming and going ever since. A few more years later then I was on my own. Still screaming. Still covered.
Then I made my home in other people’s arms, let me hold me and try me on for size. Built the capacity to have and have not – I love to have and be had. To take someone’s hand and say I got you, this grip means you are got, grip back and get me too.
I will be held in memories. The lovers of my lovers will have to know me to understand. The weight of it will bear heavy with the hazy penumbra of time, memory, and a thousand summer midnights. It’s the cost of cutting themselves on my collarbone and allowing me in.
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