At first, you ignore their overly defined upper canines. We all have our quirks. You

concentrate instead on the homogenous front line of incisors revealed when biting a piece of

raspberry scone—you watch them chew slowly. A part of you relaxes. Ignore that whisper in

your ear: you will bleed. Intrusive thoughts—a ride you didn’t buy a ticket for. Just eat your

fucking croissant. And you do. You eat a whole bakery after all the nights you sleep next to

them. You often dream you’re both sunbathing on the sand—but you step on a jagged

seashell, slice your finger on a flimsy beach-read, & cut your lip wide open on a chipped

wineglass when they pour you Riesling. You wake up paler & instinctively touch your

neck—no puncture wounds. Dreams fade as the day grows, but a specific sharpness still

lingers. A biting comment in front of family at Thanksgiving when you have one too many.

Fingernails cutting your skin when an ex walks by—leaving mini red half-moons. Teeth

piercing your inner thigh after you say not now. These days at breakfast you’re drained, but

they are well-rested. They smile as they pour sugar in your coffee, but all you see are fangs.