I stole the man’s tongue, but I didn’t know he was crazy.
I’ve got to get it back to him before I start believing what it’s telling me.
The tongue, I mean —
It sits there on the back of the toilet next to the Kleenex box
and judges me.
It tells me that if I don’t floss every single day,
the love of my life will NOT reach for the same book as I do
and we won’t meet at the library, or anywhere else.
When I wake up in the morning,
there is a wet spot on my pillow,
a slug-like saliva trail.
Yet the tongue is still perched on the toilet.
It comments on my choice of clothing,
flopping around, spattering spit.
It says I must not think much of myself
to dress the way I do.
When I get back from work,
I find the keyboard and mouse covered in a pasty white film.
My in-box is full of outraged responses.
I’ve got to give it back,
but I know the man it going to slit my throat if he finds out
where his tongue has been!
No, I better just keep it.
I better…no, no it’s too awful.
But I must.
I better eat it.