Baby Teeth

Sometimes when I eat, I imagine that what I’m eating is human. Like, biting into a baby carrot and it’s a human thumb. I can’t help it, ever since I was a child. I don’t enjoy it— it repulses me— but I can’t help it. It’s become compulsory.

I don’t do it every meal, every time I eat, but enough that I worry myself. And sometimes when I’m watching someone, watching them do anything, I get this urge to do something, something quick and violent. And every time I think about it I fear I become a little closer to acting on it. A quick, sharp jab and pluck out an eye.

I don’t watch violent movies— I never had the taste or the stomach for them. And once, just once, I tried to cut off my finger with gardening shears.

I tried— I placed my finger (so small) between the blades and held it there. But I couldn’t do it. I kept coming back, but I could never. Afterwards I felt so silly, so dramatic, but in the moment the urge was real. I have this fantasy of sneaking into the garage one night while everyone’s asleep, taking my husband’s pliers, crouching in the lawn, and pulling out all my teeth (feeling the warmth of the blood pool over my red gums).

And it would feel good (the little jolt of electricity each time a nerve breaks). Like poking a bruise or stretching a sore muscle, I would feel so relieved (the satisfying sound of the clatter as I drop each tooth into my cupped hand). And I would collect my teeth in my palms (clinking together like gold coins) and dance into the rain slick street, toss them into the air and listen to them clatter on the pavement with the sound of the rain.

And when I was done I would sneak back into bed, no one the wiser. It helps me fall asleep at night.The pain. The soreness. The joy, and the relief.