Bite It

Shelby Dale DeWeese

The product I remember

was maybe called Don’t

Bite It, bright red

circle, line slashing

through, silhouette

of a fingernail with one

jagged nick off the tip.

Every morning a fresh coat

supposed to Pavlov me.

I wish I hated the taste of Bite It more

than I relished the splintering, the growing dots

of copper on my tongue.

A friend noticed the crescent

on my chin, but didn’t know

about the neat piles on my bedside table,

bookshelf, kitchen counter.

Keratin collections,

slivers of myself

tongue-flicked from between teeth,

victorious.