I say I want to know how big a whale’s tooth would be, but you keep saying whales don’t have teeth, they’ve all got bristles like brooms in their mouths, but I feel like that can’t be true, because whales are all different, like the ocean can’t hold just one type of whale, it’s got too much space, like my mouth isn’t full of the same kind of tooth over and over again, but you say bristles, and my mouth goes cotton, so I get quiet thinking about my gums full of little blonde hairs, but after a while you say maybe at the bottom of the ocean there’s some creature who stole all the whales’ teeth, back before whales were whales, and now it’s just sitting down there on all that ivory, and you’re smiling, but now I’m a thousand pounds of ocean, and I’m unhinging your jaw wide enough to stare into your darkest parts, thinking if I can hold open your throat long enough then a full head of hair will come bubbling to the surface, because I know you imagine that I’m your girl, and that every girl is the same cold wet body, and I’m too tired to explain that you can’t just rewrite history like that, how I’d rather have a world with just one goddamn whale than make up some stupid story about it, how I’ve already spent years shoving some girl’s molars into my mouth rather than digging my own into my tongue until it bleeds, but instead I just say bristles, say it over and over until my lips go numb, until the sound washes out, until you won’t look at me anymore, and we both swallow real hard to forget the whole thing