0811. Tongues

Let’s talk about tongues, and how mine has a bad habit of running ahead of me, tripping over its own wanting. I love too easily ~ if that’s even a thing ~ like the kind of love that bursts out before I’ve even checked if the floor is solid. People who are just themselves, no filter, no branding, that’s the kind that rips my chest open. I keep accepting crumbs and calling it a feast because I haven’t yet set the damn table for myself. I carve out space for silence, boredom, the kind of stillness where truth finally slinks in like it owns the place. You can’t respect someone else wholly until you’ve stared yourself down and stayed anyway. And in that space there’s petit mort - little death - an orgasm, yes, but also the splintering of who I was before. Should I leave tonight or live and die this way?

And then there’s the way I talk - malaphors spilling out, those bastard children of idioms and clichés. I mix “cross that bridge when it hatches” with “burn the midnight oil at both ends,” and it feels truer than either parent phrase ever did. Malaphor is accident; metaphor is intention. Meta is the hand placing the image exactly where it should pierce you; mala is the slip, the beautiful wrong turn that makes a new kind of sense. My tongue doesn’t care which I’m doing.Iit just hails love, hails money, hails hell for fuck’s sake, arm raised for anything that might stop.

Hold me so close I split. Let the mess fall out, the live wires spark, the metaphors tangle with the malaphors until I can’t tell if I meant to say it that way or if the truth just blurted itself out before I could manage anyone else’s comfort. You can’t be true to yourself while you’re managing other people’s storms. Let the curb get crowded with every misfired phrase, every little death, every hunger I’ve ever named wrong and loved anyway.