My hands fondled my face, pinching my cheeks, drumming my lips, and tracing the bridge of my nose. It surprised me when it hurt, touching my open eyeballs with my fingertips. Tender. I blinked and produced tears, my face tightening as the pain subsided. I looked at my body in the mirror. Only two legs, long with flat, fleshy feet, unhooved. I squeezed a handful of belly fat. Delightful, soft, sitting over a slab of musculature. Such a clumsy but balanced structure. I wiggled my toes on the little shag throw rug which tickled my feet. I chittered in excitement, listening to my giggles. I opened my mouth, watching the lips part and rows of flat teeth try to hide the incisors and the vicious calcium of my molars. Omnivore. I eat all.

I looked at myself. Not in the mirror, but the me that I became. Sat on the floor, whimpering, hands bound and feet tied together. I wondered what I tasted like. If I was to become me, the other me would need to go away. For once, I felt strange urges. The first and foremost was not to waste the meat. By the time I fetched a carving knife from the kitchen, which I had decorated with my ex-girlfriend, I remembered I had dinner with my parents in a couple of hours. I reconsidered serving myself for dinner. The recipe for a homemade chicken alfredo linguini surfaced.

The me on the floor wriggled and thrashed. I was just an extra mouth to feed. I dragged myself out to the trash and dropped myself in. I was already tired of looking at me.

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Jaryd Porter is a writer from Lawrence, Kansas who writes about identity, perception, and intersectionality. He has an MFA in Creative Writing Fiction from Wichita State University and is currently studying to earn his PhD in Creative Writing from Oklahoma State University. His previously published works include “Hell Enough” at The Core Review, “Brother From Another” at Your Impossible Voice, “Obama Black” at Fleas on the Dog and Fiction on the Web, “That Sinking Feeling” at JAKE, and “Dance of Hours” at Feign.