You can't know what's going on
because you always look the same
no matter how big my teeth get.
I pull my lip down to show you
the new teeth that started growing
out of the squiddish flesh
that spends all day long
having sex standing up
with my teeth.
You didn't believe me
until now, now
that I've made you take
three buses across town
to watch my new teeth grow up
into sharp, wise, yellow teeth
that criss cross with newborn baby-white teeth.
And still your expression never changes
even as you extend your grimy fingers
to rub the sharpness.
I taste the salt and dirt on your curious appendages,
and I shudder. A lot of clear, runny saliva
collects in the pocket
under my tongue.
They're coming in so fast,
if these teeth don't slow down,
my whole mouth will become
a pit of teeth, a place not so much for
tasting and chewing food,
but a place more for
pulping it up into a
puree that's strains through the
teeth growing on my uvula.
What's your diagnosis?