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Passion

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If I could, I would eat words for every meal. I would jam them all inside of me and fill every crevice, every open body space with ropes, tangles and twists of words. Lovely, swirling terms. I’ve fed myself book after book, devouring them to fill my hollow, empty places. I hoped that the words would weave webs around my ribs and form parallel lines to my arteries and to my nerve endings. Maybe they have penetrated my cell walls and found a home in the lining of my lymph nodes. Sentences tucked themselves away in my spleen and quotes hid themselves in the corners of my bones. If you were to excavate my inner-intricacies, you’d find “eloquent” and “illuminated” in the crooks of my elbows. You’d discover “dignity”, “diversity”, “dearest” and “dwell” in my eye sockets. I see them when my eyes roll inward. If you were to sail down my small intestines, I promise that you’d find all of the pieces of The Perks of Being a Wallflower. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock races down my aorta like it is a slide, and my heart is its playground. Prose turns pirouettes on the curves of my kidneys. Rhetoric and satire line my stomach instead of acid. My brain stem is simply one extended metaphor. The twists of my cerebellum spell out “electric” and “infinity”. I bleed in indented paragraphs. Passion leaks silently from every pore, like the air escapes from a punctured balloon. A quote from The Book Thief rides shotgun behind the curvy cartilage in my outer ears. It is ever present, and ever applicable: “I have loved the words, and I have hated them, and I hope that I have made them right.”



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