The Pygmy Giant

by Jon Ware

Sure, your teeth are falling out. No, by God, your teeth can’t be falling out, and to convince yourself of that you research the matter in-depth online, forcing yourself to spend hours staring closely at thirteen or fourteen pages of assembled photographs of truly revolting sets of teeth (necrotic reddish-purple flesh parted on both sides, the brown jagged roots fully exposed, blood and pus simpering up from the insides) arranged by relevancy on your most trusted search engine, and dashing back to the mirror to confirm that those teeth are not your teeth, that there is, sure, a triangle of visible bone forming at the base of two of your four lower incisors and the lower gum itself, once you peel back your lip until it hurts (why didn’t you think to try it before?) is monstrous, tendons and hanging lines of raw-steak matter and the hard…

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