I knew a guy who was never able to close his mouth all the way because of his massive tongue. Every day I’d see him struggle as an inch or two or raw tongue constantly dangled over his lip. He would often furl it back in to wet it, keep it from drying and cracking, and each time he’d do so, he’d make this awful gagging noise like someone having an old sock shoved down their throat. Sometimes I’d see him give up entirely and just let it all hang out well past his chin.

There was a certain allure to his massive tongue despite the freakish and grotesque nature of it. I wondered what it would be like to have that tongue, to lick the things that he must lick, to have that sort of reach with taste, to be licked by it. I should have talked to him, gotten to know him, gotten to know that tongue, but he was much to reserved and protective of his tongue and I was altogether too shy. His speech was sloppy and labored as you would imagine. Trying to speak with a massive, throbbing tongue flopping around, unable to contact the teeth properly to pronounce words, he rarely tried. I’d watch the saliva dripping down his chin onto the desk. The look in his eyes made it quite clear that speaking was a waking nightmare for him. I wonder if he knew that I could understand him perfectly though? That I loved him and his tongue?

As the years went by, his tongue only grew more, as did his anxiety and temper. The kids were merciless, treating him like an abomination. They’d slap and pull his tongue as they walked by as his distended tongue now hung down to his chest. I’d watch him lash out and scream and cry. His tongue would become engorged with his rage and sadness. Oh, how I wish I had the nerve to approach him and stroke his tongue, to wet it and soothe it. I loved your tongue and I loved you as well.

The daily bullying broke him eventually. After being pulled to the ground by his tongue and kicked and spit on and force to lick them, their nasty parts, he didn’t respond with his typical muffled scream or wild fist throws, no. He marched, possessed it seemed, into the nearest art classroom and laid his massive, gorgeous tongue on the paper cutting table. He raised the blade, and with one clean slice, it was off. His tongue writhed on the table like a stunned eel, and blood poured from his mouth like overturned bucket. I watched in horror and sadness. It pained me to see such glorious piece of him severed and struggling, but when I looked to him, I saw a smile on his face. He must have been happy to be unburdened now even if that meant death.

I still have the tongue. It sits perfectly preserved in a glass display over my bed. Maybe I let my imagination get carried away, but sometimes I feel it licking me.