“I love You.” I want to seem holy whenever I utter these words to You, as virtuous and precious as a nun-who-will-one-day-be-saint. Delivering the benediction of my love and adoration, with a chaste kiss on Your smooth forehead with my dry lips, I want that to be an absolution for me. ME = I AM. Absolved. From the sin of desiring You bent over my feet, kissing my toes, submitting Yourself to me entirely dedicating Your existence to mine. I smash my jaw against the sink in punishment, once for every moment I desire Your dissolution and injection into my soul artery. You’re sugar-sweet and flour-soft and I am yeast, eating You and inflaming with Your worship. In all ways I need for there to be nothing in Your life except for ME (I AM), I want to melt and stick together, You rolled into my substance, YOU = dough – I am addicted to the smell of Your breaking down into ME. In the beginning, there was the Word, and the Word was Your promise that I would be Your sky and Your womb and Your pleasure and Your pain and Your bones and Your breath. I do not know how to accept being anything less. I never taught ME. And You pretended not to ask me to.