I may be this thing, 

you call human

I am composed of flesh

but my thoughts are deceiving:

There are so many instances in conversations, between friends and strangers, where I am talking to them about anything, and instantly I have the fantasy of what it would be like to kiss them. 

i would too, in a world where there are no diseases, germs, or social constructs. I am bound by the embarrassment to not touch them. The obligation to an agreed upon relationship keeps us separate. A form of respect for the time it takes mouth noises to translate ideas makes me sit still in my clothes, not advancing any further until maybe, just maybe, they stop talking and I have a chance. 

it would be more romantic, if all circumstances are present, for an interruption of their speech with my procession. Making them halt mid sentence and having an enjoyable embrace alongside the kiss seems idillic.

But this is rude,

these actions are disrespectful because people need consent and need to consent



I know that.

this is the less than regularly discussed but desperately needed topic that merits everyone’s acceptance

but there are times when I imagine all the rules going to shit, all the respect out the window and someone just making things happen, like gravity disappearing for 32 seconds.

girl to boy, boy to boy it doesn’t matter. the point of this sudden disruption would be the opening up of id, ego and superego—an invitation for anima to run wild and for a sweet release of consequential limits. 

And then I remember how people talk, and how my existence feels tied up in norms and judgements bestowed and made on and about me. I think about me getting kissed by someone, and I think about all the germs that I don’t know they DON’T have; I wonder if they are just getting over a cold sore, and if they are irresponsible with quarantining their bacterial/viral cultures. 

I don’t want those things I don’t know. And they don’t either. But then I wonder how much someone wants me enough to risk the odds. Is that love, lust, or luck?