I am not pristine.
In fact, I love greedily, like my dog licks burned soup out of a pot, rocking it knock and bang against the sunroom tiles.
I love looking over my shoulder, like a young man stealing winter squash out of a widow's field.
I love restlessly, pulling shirt creases from steaming armpits, pacing, counting down minutes.
I love dropping hot, round, salt tears into bathwater, watching fingertips I cannot conquer wither.
I love out of proportion to health, and sense, and time.
I love out of alignment with stars and etiquette.
I love holding my breath underwater, looking up at the light.
I love heart-fists clenched, staring into rain, defying it.
This is the inventory of my love: Obese. Unlistening. Cage.
Apart from these, there is left only a small, glowing coal tucked away in the very center of my stomach. It is exactly the size of a lit match just blown out, and it smokes day and night, dividing the air that the caverns of my lack have left.
It reminds me that paper burns like fuel. It reminds me that there is love in a confession.