baby rat teeth
I was sitting here talking to you like always.
My words felt heavy as they left my throat, they fell out like loose teeth when I opened my mouth and you cupped them in your hands.
I’m listening to you talk.
Your words don’t fall out - they glide to my ears. My tongue traces my mouth as you speak, running it over where my teeth should be. Usually they hurt, usually the back of my mouth is sore from holding on. There’s no gap in my jaw now - instead I find an extra row of teeth, tiny and crammed behind my grown up ones. Little tiny baby teeth.
Tiny, absolutely tiny, like a baby rat. Too small to hold anything, and only halfway across the front of my mouth.
How did I forget them? How could I misplace the pristine little teeth, forget the ways that I'm deformed? Mutant features of my body growing harmlessly gruesome out the side of my gums.
I woke up and brushed my baby rat teeth.
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