My lover is big, as dense as a neutron star, his eyes two cosmic lenses. When he licks my collar bone, his words roll off his tongue and settle around my neck like a choker.

“Are you ready for the roller coaster, Sweetie?” he whispers, shaking the ground, before he angles my shoulders and swallows me, his mouth opened wide, a row of white, jagged peaks, a quivering, slippery wormhole ahead.

It's for my benefit, he claims. All of his ex-lovers are inside him, away from diseases and predators. I duck my head and let go. Past the carotid artery and trachea, I hold on to one of the ribs and stick my legs in. It almost feels like we are doing a 69 as I linger in the headstand position rubbing against his lungs, my aorta flickering as his, in its entire splendor.

I slip into the stomach and find the leftovers of his past lovers. Some couldn't sustain the swallowing; others were not in harmony with his body. I can tell he tried to stitch some of them, but it was too late. And despite the muck and bile, it's all beautiful: a shrine of love and hope that makes his blood more vibrant, his breath sweet, reminiscent of all. His body is a supernova where I am safe and warm.His larynx flutters; it's my favorite song. “Can you hear it, Sweetie?” he yells. I push my fist against his muscular abdomen. He laughs. I know what he's thinking. No more compromises or conflicts, only true, unified love, opening and closing forever like the valves of his heart.

He says I am the strongest. I have a chance.