doodle

Yes, this is what I do with myself when it's hot and I can't write narrative stories: I write shitty semi-poetry about being enclosed in an environment nearly a hundred degrees in temperature.

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I want to pry you open with my bare hands and curl up inside you. I want to press myself close to you, skin on skin so there is no end to you or beginning of me. I want to drag my nails down your chest, along your sternum and down to your stomach, slicing through the skin to your bones. I want to pry the cartilage from your ribs. I want to open them up like a door, and I want to slide through the gap into the cavity of your chest. I want to close your ribs around me. I want you to press your skin back together with your fingertips, sew it shut and seal me in. I want to lie there, curled inside you, resting against your lungs as they expand and contract with each breath you take, arms wrapped around your heart as it beats. I will hold tight and love you from the inside out, and you will keep me safe within the confines of your chest, carry me with you as you get up and go about your day.
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