A Bad Habit

I have twenty-eight teeth that have developed the taste for blood. They pick at curled-in collars and pull small, stinging streaks through thin, wrinkled flesh. They are restless to get under each tiny white wishbone curve, trying without rest to nibble away the nerves or eat at the anxiousness. Afterwards, of course, they feel bad when there is nothing left but mangled flesh, left naked, raw, and exposed to the dry air. But, after only a short respite, their will breaks down as starved teeth are driven to bite the hand that feeds them once again.