fell onto the earth and split his head wide open so the world could peer inside to grieve.

What a shame that his face is shaped in a way that makes his reflection unravel counterclockwise.

The outcast child has guts where his molars should be. His throat is a single, pincer- lined pipe to the stomach:

a pit holding his decay and a foreign set of teeth. The children pinch his red- tinted skin and pull at the

nibs that once were his ears. Roach boy. Tick eater. Ant Killer. In embrace of their taunts, he splits his lips to

reveal a blackened mound of eyes. To him, his diet is only natural. He’s spent his life consuming everything

that hurts him: scabs, hang- nails, the hand that struck him. The first time he bled, a mosquito had bitten his

earlobe. It stings, he thought, and spent the night pulling at the skin until a rose bloomed on his pillow case.