By Devan Petersen
I cut him off mid-sentence,
reach out with a knife of words,
and slice his lips from his face.
His eyes grow wide and scared,
as he stares disbelieving,
at the mouth he used to have,
tightly in the grip of my fingers.
I clutch it so it cannot leave,
so that he could not try to wrestle it,
viciously from my fingertips
no matter how much he wants to.
“Listen,” I hiss at him,
but he doesn’t look at me
his eyes roll around wildly
darting all over the room
his attention on all but me.
So I reach out and take his eyes,
scoop them right out of his head,
in great jelly-like globs,
that glisten in my fists,
so that I’m staring at his face,
blank of smiles and sight.
“Pay attention,” I implore him,
begging him to not make me,
take anything more from his face.
Trembling he turns an ear at me
and I open my mouth
but I find all I can do is scream.