Mouth

I understand why I sucked on my index finger for so long as a child.
Why my mother had to promise to stop smoking
for me to finally let go of suckling my own skin.

It’s warm inside my mouth.
Cozy.

The side parts are fleshy,
the way I imagine a womb to be.
They stretch around whatever pushes against them,
warming to the touch.

The part in front of my bottom teeth is granular,
but the grains are just hard enough to be seeds,
and just soft enough that you can’t press them to a pop.

My teeth form a square, did any lovers of my tongue ever notice?
The sides go straight then 90 degree rotation, slide inclination and bam, straight line to the other side.

That’s where my index finger used to fit.

I was just under seven back then,
and I would suck on my finger until it destroyed all of my no longer baby teeth,
unknowing that my sucking was signing my high school death warrant,
sentencing me to what would be years of orthodontic care,
right up until I decided I cared more about letting a senior tongue feel the gaps between my teeth than having perfect rows of them.

I wanted tongue
against tongue
against cheek
against the soft part of my palate
against the grains behind my bottom lip
against
metal
free
teeth.

I’m way past highschool now though, and so far?

No other mouth can fit my index the way mine does.