You are gluten free; I am eating books now.

My tongue is coated in recycled paper cuts and I’ve grown accustomed to indigestion upon reaching the final pages.

You search labels, count calories, drive ten extra miles to catch the bakery on the corner that uses coconut flour and sugar substitutes. I remain still in this corner of the earth chewing like a rabid monster as chapters slip into my mouth and sentences slide down my throat.

You have diagnosed yourself with celiac disease, dermatitis herpetiformis, and a wheat allergy. I have diagnosed myself as a glutton for fatty words.

You are okay with corn, tapioca, rice, potatoes. Sometimes you use nut flour or quinoa. You dream about amaranth and millet. I am fine with Bukowski, Sexton, Acker, Delany. Sometimes I take a break from novels and poems, and read non-fiction. I dream about hybrid prose and Lidia Yuknavitch.

You do not wear lipstick. However. You investigate mouths before you kiss them for signs of gluten in lipbalmlipgloss. You leave your envelopes open for fear of its gluten glue. You fear you fear you fear cross contamination. I do not wear lipstick. However. Sometimes I push it into my lips like a bully and then I kiss the table of contents because I want the wax and emollients to leak into the elipses leading to page numbers. I leave my zipper open for easier access when I’m enthralled.

You just finished your meal of gluten free bread full of rice and legumes and almonds and xanthum gum and corn starch and hydroxypropyl methylcellulose. I just finished a memoir about water a memoir about testosterone a novel about how he lost her a book of poems about crossing borders a memoir about sex work. You need a napkin to wipe your mouth; I need another bookshelf.

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