She remembers the first time she grew teeth that didn’t fit behind her lips. The orthodontist called it overcrowding . She called it becoming . At night, she would press her palm against the mirror and watch her nails darken into something closer to talons. She practiced retracting them before breakfast. She learned to laugh with her hand over her mouth. Monster , the other children said—but they said it like a color she shouldn’t wear.
Her human hands. Her human teeth. Her spine still curved from years of apologizing. The alarm clock reads 4:47 AM. The radiator clicks. Somewhere a neighbor is coughing. monster girl dreams diminuendo
She whispers, I’m sorry I take up so much space. She remembers the first time she grew teeth