Located two ribs below the heart, it is called hate.
Everything we've done as teenagers, young adults, whatever you'd really like to call it, can be summed up by who we've dated. Who we've kissed, loved, fucked, sucked. Two hearts wrapped up so tightly, collected and strewn about with all these different names and faces. Fingertips or maybe just arms, regardless wrapped up in the bedroom of a party with carpets that smell like cat piss. In the back seat of a car during an indian summer, trembling because you're afraid the cops might catch you. Someone touching your face so gently, hot breath, tugging on your earlobe. The sudden feeling that prickles further than your skin, beyond penetration, pulsing at your temples. Suddenly you're feeling their skin smooth against yours and he's pinning you down by the wrists and kissing your neck.. and you've just melted into a puddle. It's this moment that suddenly changes everything, it's the turn of a knife when you realize this will be your last chance to say something important. Then you realize you've never said one important thing in your entire goddamn life. You try to mutter something sweet, something special. You want him to remember this. But then it hits you like a brick, you've never been special, you've just always been right. And we all know being right isn't the answer. The summary of all these things we strive to understand just mean; maybe in a perfect world we're all better than two bodies clanking clumsy for the first time. There's all the animals we've loved, clothes we've sewn by hand, pie crusts, pictures we've developed. We're more than the people we let climb inside our arms, those big eyes that opened up so wide. In a sense everyone is much better tucked away into a secret spot locked up inside our heads, the vault of lust, I liked you better locked away. There is more to our marrow than the root of our lust, this I know is right.