I.
I want to make a movie about you, but I
don’t know who would pay to see it. I just think
you would look really beautiful with a camera
focused on the ridges of your teeth.
I guess the plot wouldn’t be too interesting:
it’s just you and the woods and the people you lure away,
siren-sweet and smile sharp. They’d hear your voice and call it
Oscar-bait, honeyed-scarlet like a tongue with a cherry stem:
Tie it up with a knot and call it art. People don’t like
the monstrous feminine anymore, but as the director and producer and
cinematographer, I would put you in that red lipstick
and tell you that you look like a star.
II.
I feel like I’m your sidekick. You tempt boys into
the woods and come back with bloodied lips, red and sloppy
like you sucked the meat off Adam’s ribs on the first date, and tell me:
He’s waiting for you out there.
I don’t mind that you’re feeding me your
leftovers. I don’t think I would mind if you put our mouths
together and spit the chewed-up flesh down my throat. At least
it means you want to take care of me, even if
It’s in the same way a mother does when she
Pushes her child from the nest to splatter in pieces on the concrete.
I promise I don’t mind. It’s nice for me to know that
my teeth have stuck themselves in the same places as yours.
III.
Some days I can’t tell if you love me or hate me. You
feed and nurture and say you’re my best friend; you use your
all-consuming desire to satiate mine, too, baring your
teeth to everyone in the world except for me, but
If you really loved me, I think a part of you would dream about
eating me. You throw your arm around my shoulder, but you will never
squeeze: a necessary coldness, the cruelty of if you love me, let me go.
Restraint is second-nature. Restraint is kindness, you think.
You have never asked for my opinion, but I think that,
maybe, it might be nice to see your mouth from the inside.
I will press my fingers to your gums and peck at the crumbs between your
molars, and my blood will warm your stomach. Let me sustain you.
IV.
I’ve noticed: you hold lollipops like cigarettes,
between two fingers, between two teeth. When you
share one with me, I hold it like a child; how many
licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?
I can never find out; I am too busy watching
you to keep count. I’m sure you would know the
answer by now if you ever made it to the bottom, but
you’re just a bit too self-destructive, so
You always bite into them too soon, sooner than
I do. I worry about choking. I worry my jaw isn’t strong enough to
crush it. But you bite it, sweet-red sugar lip gloss, and
I close my eyes when the pieces crunch.
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