Rotting teeth never made her take smaller bites. Canines hanging by a thread causing her head to hurt. She relishes the ache in her gums when she holds bone in her hand, tangible and real. Placed in ammonia her decomposing teeth bleach, becoming a horrible imitation of a marshmallow. The illusion of something soft and fragile and sweet. The craving of a treat. She pops each morsel back into her mouth, pushing them into her bleeding gums. The taste is acrid and the chemicals bubble on her tongue. Her smile is blinding, reflecting the light of the refrigerator. Each tooth brittle, fear lodged in her stomach. Reaching for sustenance. Porcelain bone clamps into the skin of an apple. The shattering is deafening. Shards. Juice. Skin caught in her throat. Alone. She chokes. 

“Take smaller bites” her mother would say. But she was excited. Maybe it was glutton and maybe it was greed. Or maybe she was celebrating. Her adult teeth had come in which means she was growing up. All strength. Need for nourishment. Hunger. Pearly and straight, she was born again. She was whole. When she was young, when she still had her baby teeth, she was afraid of the kitchen. Silly fantasies laid a curse upon family dinners. Now. Now she is grown and monsters are not real. Quiet conversation. Interludes of “pass the cheese please” and “is this basil fresh?” The meal like a dance and the cutlery the song. Feet on the chair and head raised tall she yelled, “I am not afraid.” Fearlessness fed her big bites of spaghetti. Fearlessness kept her shirt clean. Fearlessness kept her trachea clear. She cannot choke on what is not there.