in Word Riot
I like your eyes, he says, so she sticks her finger in the right socket and wiggles things about until an eye pops onto the table. He picks it up, shovels it into his mouth, bites down. Thank you, he says, and chunks of eye slime fly from his face.
He pets her hair. He asks, What colour would you say that is? She says, I don’t know, maybe a reddish brown? He says, Yeah, just like a fox.
She grabs fistfuls of the hair and pulls. Warm blood rivers from her scalp, reminding her of the hot fudge she likes on her ice-cream; she’s a blood sundae.
She hands him clumps of hair with bits of skin attached at the roots. Oh my, he says, thank you. He brushes the hair over his cheek, over his neck, over his chest, then stuffs it in his pants.
What else do you like? she asks. That smile of yours. Yes, of course, my smile. She tugs at her lips until the skin around them thins. She tugs until the skin tears and the lips rip from her face. They're like dead worms in her fingers. Dead erms! she says and gives them over.
She laughs because she can't make “w” sounds without lips. She gags because of the blood sliding down her throat. He chews on the lips. She throws-up rusty oceans.
He pulls the lips from his teeth and spreads them back into her face. She tries her best to smile but the lips won’t take directions. Smile for me, he says. He presses his hands into the lips, curves the corners upwards to her cheeks. Smile for me.