I.

i.

the first time i met you, i couldn’t pronounce your name when you introduced yourself. my tongue stumbled over your name as if it became drunk off its syllables alone, to my embarrassment and your annoyance. tongues are a tricky thing— they are kind enough to hide everything you aren’t brave enough to say but cruel enough to make you taste the bitterness of your secrets. i wonder if you still taste her. i wonder if her name tastes like sun or vodka burning on its way down or the cold side of the bed or the things you never said to her or the love you used to share. i hope you spit out the taste of her name when you left her. because i’ve stopped sharing room with other women in the roofs of people’s mouths years ago. it took me a lot of blood and even more tears to teach myself i am too large to share a mouth with someone else— the taste of my name is made of cayenne pepper and tumeric and honey that stings, too potent to mix with someone else. i, too, have the sort of name tongues get drunk on. you do not see that we are the same yet.

ii.

if i had the chance, i’d swallow you. i’d devour the lies you tell yourself and digest the truths you’re courageous enough to admit, i’d take you straight and i’d let you burn on the way down like my throat was born to sting. i wouldn’t hesitate. but i am so frightened that if i dared taste you, it would be her aftertaste that would remain, or if i tried to describe your flavor i’d say her name instead. i can’t kiss with tongue if your mouth is still drunk off the very syllables of her name. because while i’ve learned to say your name correctly, my stomach craves to pronounce it, too. my teeth are sweetened by the very sight of you.

— tongues hold so much more than names (ap 12.21.18)