Routine.

It starts with the little finger.

Nibble,

And another.

 

Its small serrated teeth confuse you at first –

Maybe not again.

Its rugged tongue is insistent

Chaw at my sphinx nose

Claws sink into flesh

I now know – no speaking

Unless you want words that sound like blood

Eroding cliff, half-mask,

From corpus callosum to sternum to pelvis

I want to scream,

Pulling my jaw open, quivering like a bow

Any second now.

 

Perforated skull.

Third eye.

Recent enough that it cries, let the mouth corners rise

Pulling on this jaw

Until I can push it into a soft chest

Ripped like a mouldy peach,

Or maybe clench it shut

Wound up on my hands

Teeth crunch, fingers crunch

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

 

What I wouldn’t give to iron out my body,

All the searing creases.

Or to fold my head up

Squeeze it all out. ∎

 

Words by Léa Gayer de Mena.