From the short story, “The Lady of the House of Love” . I would normally stick my tongue between my two fingers,  but this is a much fancier and therefore a  better way of saying eat me?  This is a reaction to all the uncalled for harshness of life, for all the sick joy that people get from their little, or big, acts of hostility (I know, I should save it for Mean Monday, oops. I read the story this weekend, so it is fresh in my mind):

And I leave you as a souvenir the dark, fanged rose. I plucked from between my thighs, like a flower laid on a grave.  On a grave.