Oxytocin, My Ass

I think your heart is a sad fucking noodle,
limp and stretched and hanging wetly
from a pair of extended fingertips that are
holding it out, gingerly away, with a gesture that says “Ew,
this was lying on the floor. I better toss it out,
it’s not good to eat.”

And my heart, my heart is boiling in the goddamn pot,
churning with a million ferocious bubbles exploding
in a frenzy of wooshing, tangled with myself and colliding
into other spinning hearts in the scalding, scalding
water.

And frankly, I’d rather be in the pot than on the floor,
even though it’s a hot confusing riot of feeling and
sound. It’s a risk I have to take, because I’d rather
boil, tangle and collide
then be dangling wetly underdone and hard
on the inside

and because at least here, I know I’ll meet up with a bunch of other
crazy boiling noodle hearts, and together with our warmth,
our plump and soft centers, and our yearning
to transform,
and create,
and love,
we’ll make something
delicious.

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