If I could eat myself alive

I’d meet myself under the tree of life,

lay me down,

rest my hips between my hands

and eat for hours at a time.

I’d eat all night,

come into the stars and back again,

reborn, reborn, reborn,

and into the next day

and when the light of morning touched my face I’d feel both warm inside and out.

I’d lick every remnant of inside from my outside until my flesh had nothing left to say

and then I’d pray and pray and pray

and sing the sweet sap of orgasm to my tongue once more.

If I could eat myself alive I’d be alive for sure.

I’d know my body like both sides of a coin and I’d flip to see who stays and goes,

who comes and who watches,

who feels the throes of my pelvis rocking

and I’d explore every possible movement, every probable and impossible reaction to every twist and plunge of my tongue.

I’d be patient with me.

I’d laugh and I’d chew and I’d sip sweet sweat as it rolled from once flat spaces to those who have grown stretched and round.

I’d find all of my secrets and invite them out in the cover of night, under the cover of the tree of life

and then I’d sit myself down on the branch’s long swing and I’d pump until I could fly out into the wind,

whispering to myself that I could find myself here again

any time.