i think it would be nice if you puked on me.
       
       i mean it. i don't care about smells. if i had the option i probably would've let my nose go a long time ago, cut loose and let it fly off, bloody and attached with fleshy noodle string. (probably that time when i was eleven and in love with my second-cousin and my feet smelled and he was breathing down my neck and it would've probably just been better if i hadn't known that my feet smelled and could've only felt his stomached, washed and beautiful breath.)
       
       maybe you didn't need to know that.
       
       but i would take it. your vomit, i mean. i would like it right here. (you can't see where i'm pointing, i know, but it's at my chest, in the little alcove around my stomach. did you know that all my fat pools there? while my arms and legs get smaller and smaller, it's like my stomach and my hips build up and up, making little blocky mayan temples and surrendering to the joy of a padded skeleton. and my ass! my ass, my ass!)
       
       maybe you didn't need to know that, either. those. all of those. all that i am not letting go, but out.
       
       i'm not really picky about color, either. green is my favorite, and vomit is stereotypically green. (but i would be a big fat liar if i said that it could only always ever be green, like dead forest trees and faded emeralds and whitewashed limes. i've seen it blackened and in shades of white and orange and brown and there was some red sometimes, maybe some blood, when i think about it, and i got that taste in the back of my throat, you know, when you eat a bunch of sausage and you think oh god, oh god, i'm eating pig's blood.)
       
       maybe you could give me a big fat purple load of vomit. (i don't remember if i've ever seen purple. i don't think so. then again, i didn't really make a habit of staring at my puke. it would all just unload, like i was some big fat dump truck, a little boy's, maybe, on the playground, where he had loaded it up with sand until my throat was swallowed with it and i couldn't breathe and he let it all go with a big fat smile; and then my vision would be really blurry and my throat would burn, acid and mountain ridges, and i would let my head rest against the toilet seat for a few moments, and then i would open the stall door and wipe my eyes and wash my hands and avoid the eyes of everyone who dared to walk into the girls' bathroom when i was there.)
       
       maybe you needed to know that one. maybe that will be crucial to your existence. maybe it is a fact and a memory and an experience of mine that you will be able to clutch to your chest and say oh! and how! (and i hope you tell me when you do, because i would like to have that inside my chest, too, next to my heart and coated around my lungs, like the snot of that nose i should've left buried in a pit somewhere.)
       
       so vomit on me. please. i want it, here and here and here, i want it in all the colors of your insides! (and don't call it purging; don't call it emptying, or sacrificing, or letting go, giving up, throwing out. call it puking, like you did when you were a child, leaving memories in the seats of swings and leaving footprints on playgrounds that have long since forgotten you and are learning to inhabit new fleshy little child legs. call it throw up and puke and call it an accident, a big messy vomited accident.
       
       because i want to feel, i want to see, i want to have where you've been, what you've been swallowing, what and who you've been letting inside. i want all of you that you are willing to give me.)
       
       right here.
       (you can't see, but i'm pointing at my heart.)