I want to be digestible— there, I said it. I want to be the soft mouth, the wet yes, the honeyed come in, the please, the thank you, the sorry, the good girl, the sit pretty, the don't make a scene, the don't be difficult, the don't be so much, the don't be so loud, the don't be so hungry, the don't be— I want to be the thing you can swallow without choking. Because I am hungry. Because I want to be held. Because I want to be inside you not as a stone, but as a song. Because my mother taught me love is a thing you earn by being easy, by being good, by being small enough to fit in the palm of a hand that closes. BUT— I want to stab the guts that digest me. I want to be the blade in the belly, the glass in the honey, the bone in the throat, the scream that comes back up at 3 a.m. I want to be the meal that fights back, the communion wafer that bites, the body of Christ that says THIS IS MY BLOOD AND YOU WILL CHOKE ON IT. I want to be loved and I want to be devour...