He chewed on straws. And thumbs. And his bottom lip.
His perfectly straight teeth biting, dragging, playing.

I would stare.
And I would run my tongue over my crooked, yellow teeth in the silence of my mouth.
We couldn't quite afford braces.
And besides, my stepmom always said it gave me my own peculiar charm.
She ought to know.

But now I'm afraid to smile in front of him.
I don't speak much either.
Because of my teeth.

It is only whe our mouths meet, saliva melting together that I let him in. His tongue smooth, rolling in the cave of my mouth. Our teeth occasionally raking together.
Bleached and straight. Crooked and yellowing.
Only in the darkness it doesn't matter.

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