There are teeth in the way, made of bad
ivory, bad thoughts. They impede
the mirror hiding in the mouth.

The mouth connects to the stomach and
it eats me up from the inside.
I can’t stand to be treated this way.

Yet I gobble the story, a glutton for
the sensation ‒ the feeling of being loved,
of being seen.

The feeling connects to the bones,
the bones to the directionless ire,
and I go blind with envy.