Tripping

I want you to drink me, that I might slither down your throat and take up residence in your body. I will not fester, nor grow. I will not take up much space. In fact, you'll hardly know I'm there, save for the slight warmth somewhere near the center of you. I would be pleased, I think, to live there for a time. Basking, perhaps, in your presence. Relishing in the wholeness with which your body encompasses mine.

There is nothing foul in you, I think. Nothing distasteful, nothing diseased. I like that, admire it. I thought surely I would be greeted by some great, churning monstrosity as is so often the case. Some blood-engorged evil, lurking in the small intestine. Some roiling pool of acid in the stomach. Some infectious parasite waiting for a hapless visitor like me to wander by for a meal.

Terrifying as they are, I'm fairly certain spiders live in every inch of my body.

I want you to drink me, that I might feel your lips wrapped around me. There is something fascinating about the idea. Something so utterly captivating. I have never been more thoroughly romanced than while inside your mouth.

I want you to peel back my skin. Look with wonder at what you find beneath. Replace my bones and sinew with parts of you. String my limbs to my body with tendrils of soul and give me form with odds and ends collected from your memories.

As much as I yearn to be inside you, I need you to be my insides.

Yours,
-S.R.