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.