Gnawed

By Ashley Rosenberg

When I was little, I stared into the world’s big open mouth. She had sharp teeth and a soft pink tongue that I could walk around on. Bouncing like a trampoline. On something that wasn’t a trampoline. Playing hide and seek in the crevices of her molars. Using the roots of wisdom teeth that hadn’t been pulled yet as slides. Dangling from the monkey bars of her braces. The world might have been ready to swallow me whole, but I was to stay whole.

What happened to the promise that vibrated in the back of her throat as I hopscotched into adulthood?

Fleshy bits of me are missing from where the world ground her teeth in her sleep. She must not have been paying attention.

Why did she leave me with severed tendons hanging out like marionette strings?

“I can dance for you on your open mouthed stage”

My feet sinking into her tongue’s gushy center as my tap shoes match the rhythm of the world’s breath.

But for now I’ll scream.

Open mouthed into her mouth, drops of my spit mixing with hers.

“You promised you would swallow me whole. Instead you left me half gnawed.”