This body lies, it lies, with each swollen limb leading astray from what is/not (am I bound to be defined by negation?). Each cell, each piece of skin a new prism, expanding from the first, which in itself, is a lie. That each are honest, that each are telling their story, and that none of the stories are the same, but that they are the same, that they crawl over me, these ants of overwhelming desire and fear. It is a lie, it is all a lie, because it cannot all be true, because Truth has made me think of them as lies, and so for this, I hate truth, and love it for the negatives that it birthed, for these lies. And each lie, in itself, is broken, fractured with inconsistency that cannot be appeased or soothed, because logic belongs to Truth, and we are not of Truth. We are its residue, the pieces that don't match.

And I can believe that I love you because I love your body and can see how you are the consummate of what the world has done to your area, the mountains that are beneath you. I can believe I love you because I can't see you, because I know that I have no eyes, and I see them resting on your skin, hanging off finger nails and between your legs. That we have no voice, no content, does not bother me, because I know you in other ways: I know what your body leaves behind, I know its residue, I know its contradiction, and I want to soothe you.