Perhaps I have had too much. Too much love, too much sex, too many showers. I’ve been blurring the lines, slipping in and out of arms, tumbling between sheets, and landing in a tangle of my own limbs with my angry, laughing heart pumping in the middle of it all. And I have no one to blame, no one to praise, but myself; electric me, natural and alive and disgraceful. In love with the idea of every experience, calling the name of temptation, wrapping my legs around her waist, tasting and pushing before life pulls me on, hands still reaching, yearning to touch and be touched by everything.
I don’t believe in purity. I believe in humanity, and depravity, and curiosity. Because if this is it, I want the soil to swallow a body that’s drenched in sweat, exhausted and twisted by laughter. Fuck purity. Give me stains and shame and hysterical joy. Give me euphoria and all of the agony that comes with it. Give me life. And if I must be purified, let it be now, let it be always, as I walk through the fires and light of experience.