I want to worship you, kneel down and lick the instep of your pretty, pretty shoes. I want to suck on your soft pale fingers, and tongue the webs in between so you will know how much I want all of you: both the visible and the invisible, secret parts. I want to start a church in your name and it will not be ironic, it will be the true expression of everything within me that longs to be a devotee of everything in you that deserves to be adored. I want to open my holes and let in the beauty of the world as filtered through your fist. I want to remake myself in the image of what you would create if you were the first goddess, before the gods came along in their hubris and fucked it all up. I want to please you with the altar of my tears and the sacrament of my gorgeous sweaty suffering. I want to know I have held nothing back in the offering, I have given you the best and most beautiful moments of me, I want to feel the rush of emptiness that is the only real transcendence—where there is no gap between debasement and praise, when shame melts into bliss, when my brain stops and my body is filled with light, that ultraviolet I see in you, shimmering, just between your bones. The truth is I am not interested in deities when everything I want is right here, in these bodies, in the midst of our flaws and fears, our messy awkward forms: this radiance, this lust that purifies.
And if you fall, I want to catch you with my soft, unbroken gaze.