Poem: A Bad Habit


I have twenty-eight teeth

that have developed

the taste for blood.


They pick at curled-in collars

and pull small, stinging streaks

through thin, wrinkled flesh.


They are restless to get under

each tiny white wishbone curve,

trying without rest to

nibble away the nerves

or eat at the anxiousness.


Afterwards, of course,

they feel bad

when there is nothing left

but mangled flesh,

left naked, raw, and exposed

to the dry air.


But, after only a short respite,

their will breaks down as

starved teeth are driven

to bite the hand that feeds them

once again.


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