“Okay, I will,” he blithely responded.
“Yea, you do that,” she smiled. “Wait, what are you—”
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Taking out a scalpel, he looks down at his chest;
now looking at her, he slowly runs the scalpel,
starting above the collar bone, right in the middle of his chest
down to where the ribs end their protection.
Blood flows out of him like bats out for a hunt.
He places the scalpel on a floating, shiny, metallic table lined with wax paper.
A detached hand passes him the rib spreaders.
As he cranks, his bones crack like dry wood being snapped in a forest.
Locking the mechanics in place, still staring at her,
not needing to look down, like a practiced guitarist,
he rips his heart out of his chest cavity,
squeezing the organ out of its beats,
and takes a giant, teeth-sewing bite,
creating sounds of crushing moist flesh—
almost the melody of biting into a tough orange.
Blood runs from the corners of his mouth;
He licks every drop that escaped his quivering tongue:
closing his heavy lids to truly take in the taste of salt and iron
as the blood runs and dries along his throat.
Upon opening his eyes, she’s still frozen.
Holding out his heart with a teeth impression a dentist could use,
he offers her a bite.
She looked hungry.