From the menu of Emotion I’d order Passion
in a heartbeat. It’s all I have the appetite for
these days, the flood of oxytocin, temporarily
electric— the body synonymous with fire.
I hunger for the flush of a real glow, any means
of carrying the blood back to my cheeks. I like
myself best when I’m set aflame, crucified by
magic. I thirst for touch, for squeezing ripe
fruit until it drips to my elbows, for a teenage
thrill with a regretful aftertaste. Fill me with
fury, test my temper, color me ecstatic again.