by Dawn West
I’m drinking beer and watching a woman split her tongue on TV. She is a modified person, a subversion of trends with her fake tits and designer scars; her brilliantly pale shaved head and bouquet of tattoos. Her eyelids wiggle and the two muscles in her tongue swim like lovers, blood blurring onto her lips. I lay my cheek against your stomach in bed and consider piercing my nipple with a needle, leaving a silver hoop behind. I think about the false eyelashes I wore when I was fifteen. I think about how I lifted up my skirt for a boy that night, batting those lashes with self-filleting efficiency. I watch a woman split her tongue on TV and my shock is becoming distant with the growing weight of my lust for her. I want to shove my face against her silicone chest and listen to the whistles and clanks of her heart. Her tongue looks like shaved pussy lips and I want to rub my clit with the blood-stained ice in her hand.
Dawn West (b. 1987) is a nice young lady and a cheap date. She finds it sad that she's never masturbated anywhere strange. Her work has appeared most recently in Postcard Shorts and is forthcoming in Necessary Fiction.