should you ever ask me what i want

She asked me what I wanted and I told her.

“So, you want to be pursued?”

“No,” I replied. “I want to be broken open.”

You can be the hammer if you’d like but only my fingers, and my fingers alone, touch the shards of me. Yes, you can have the privilege, punishment, chore of breaking me open. But if blood is to be drawn on the jagged edges of me, it will be my own. Mine alone.

So, you want to be pursued?

Yes. I want my soul at the doormat of my heart. My past self lounging in my spot on the couch, our favorite movie queued up. My inner child raiding the fridge, free of judgment, for snacks. My present self out for a bike ride, making heart eyes at the clouds. My highest self tipping my chin up for a gentle kiss.

No. I want to be broken open. I want to know every inch of my viscera. Every twitch and stitch and ache and flutter and gurgle. Every thought and emotion and angle and hesitation and lost memory. I want a library of my life. Filled with books I can watch like movies. Picture shows. A montage of every millisecond that has made me. Carved me, crafted me, cut me.

Yes. I want. No. I want.

No. I don’t want. Yes. I need.