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Fact: I don't even ask for your number in person. I start a
Facebook conversation, the computer screen like the thin lattice work
that separates me from the priest during confession. You
are the first girl I have ever wanted.
I show you a poem I wrote about you. It is either wildly romantic
or terribly *** creepy, but it makes you smile. I hope
you realize this only encourages me. It's gotten
to the point where you spin cocoons in my subconscious. I dream about your naked
body. You are the birth before the butterfly. A caterpillar's
crawl.
I can't stop myself. You use correct punctuation; you love
that I spell favourite and colour with a "u" even though I'm not British; You
know the difference between your and you're, there, their, and they're,
to, too, and two. Your words are too sexy for the two of us to ignore.
Fact: In over ninety percent of natural births, the mother
*** herself before she can push the baby out. She can't
control which hole she pushes and which one she doesn't.
To think that you were literally born into blood and
pain and *** and somehow
you grew up to be this beautiful.
In the movies, when the mother's done pushing, the doctor holds up a baby
with dry hair and clean skin, but a pretty lie is still a lie. I bet when
you came screaming out of your mother's ***, she
wrapped your ugly wrinkled form in her arms and
kissed your ***-covered forehead. I want to
love you like your mother loved you.
I want to gag on the smell of your morning breath, I want you pissed off
because period cramps suck, I want to feel the click of
my teeth against yours as our kisses don't turn out
quite so smooth. Your lips bloom on your face like
you are ready to burst into kisses, so do it. I dare you.
Burst into me. *** me up. Sneeze on the back of my neck.
As long as it's with you, I want to have bad, awkward sex.
Fact: There are things together we will never be naturally -- like pregnant or really
good at lifting weights. But our arms
are strong enough to hold each other, and there are
enough dumb teenagers whose accidental babies we can adopt. Or even
better, we can be cat ladies because we can't psychologically *** up a cat. They
poop in boxes.
Fact: I want you to fart in your sleep. I want to find one of your ***
hairs in my toothbrush. I want to find the beauty in all of the ugly facts that life
has given us. We are trash art, abandoned buildings, pollution
sunsets. I want you honest to your
origins, *** and all, because you are the most beautiful ugly
that I have ever seen.