My dentist tells me I grind my teeth in my sleep,

The holes I tore through the plastic retainer proved it.

My teeth have always been drawn too sharp,

Ready to snap and bite at a moment's notice.

I bit at the first hand to approach me,

Like the Doberman down the block.

I bit the second hand, but I didn't take my teeth out,

My canines sunk into deep gashes before I let go.

So, when the next comes around,

I will be ready to snarl and bark and scratch.

Except the third hand is flattened and still,

My teeth scrape and push, but I can't sink them in.

My jowls line with foam, ready for the kill,

But the hand remains unmoving and steady.

When I finally calm myself and the Doberman stands down,

I take a moment to admire the dips and curves of the hand.

The skin is smooth and soft unlike any other,

Stout fingers wiggle slightly, testing my reaction.

I rest my nose against the rounded fingertips,

Feeling the grooves and inhaling the faint lotion scent.

I rest the sharpened edges of my teeth on the whorls in a silent threat.

Still, the hand remains, admiring the razor-like points. So, I lick.