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.