I’ve been losing one tooth every night. Now I only have one left.

My grip tightened around the sink as my tongue navigated the polished edge of my final molar. I could feel its roots releasing, and I jerked my head upward to extend this bliss. It washed over me in a wave of ecstasy and relief before the dentin grip gave way.

The tooth dislodged from its alveolus and rolled to the back of my mouth. I tried to prod the exposed hole with the tip of my tongue, hoping to taste the remains of the now-fading beatitude, but I could only taste copper. The wound throbbed softly, draining my body of the last trace of pleasure.

I lowered my head and spat into the bathroom sink. The tooth clinked against the porcelain, then slowly trailed toward the drain. I felt an impulse—a dire need to save this part of myself, which was now sliding toward the blackness. I could not allow it to be lost.

I could not move my body, yet my eyes traced the enamel object as it drifted, carried by a blanket of blood and saliva. All my muscles tensed. It slid toward the void’s edge. Just before it vanished, my body twitched faster than I could follow, and I saved the molar from the call of the void.

I had saved all its predecessors, and a part of me always knew I was saving this one, too.

I was never in control.

I sank to the bathroom floor, clenching the molar in my fist—afraid someone might take it from me—and I wept.

It started thirty-one days ago.

There was nothing remarkable about that morning; my alarm woke me the same way it always did, and my store-brand coffee tasted as stale as ever. After brushing my teeth, I noticed something strange.

The cheap LED light hanging from the fixture emphasized the abnormal position of one of my canines. I remember feeling it then—an unfamiliar compulsion. The need to claim the tooth. To yank it free and keep it safe. To cherish it.

The sensation washed over me as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, eyes fixed on the out-of-place appendage. I had to leave for work, yet the thought of abandoning it stayed with me as I stood there.

However, the temptation would not leave my side. Whenever I had the opportunity, I would explore the loose tooth with my tongue, feeling its edges, probing its instability. I sensed it beckoning, a quiet call I could not refuse.

I knew it was wrong. You have to believe me.

Reflecting on those first moments, it almost feels as if someone else witnessed them instead of me.

As soon as I returned home, I stared into the bathroom mirror once more. Was something wrong with me? I inspected my face, pulled my eyelids down, and traced every inch I could reach, searching for any anomaly.

I found nothing.

But the tooth… as soon as I opened my mouth, its presence mocked me. The canine, now tilted toward the mirror, seemed to invite me.

A sudden clarity washed over me.

No. Instructions.

My fingers made their way to the tip of the tooth, which seemed to twitch in anticipation. An unspoken understanding passed between two different parts of my body, guided by the same influence.

At first, I tapped the tooth with my index finger. Every touch sent a soft, tingling sensation through my mouth, spreading outward until it left my body through the tips of my toes. The tapping soon turned into gentle rubbing, as my body’s acceptance of the unfamiliar sensation morphed into a craving.

I wanted more.

My eyes closed, and the pressure of the tooth, pressed between my fingertips, made my body twist and jerk. Saliva slid across my skin, accompanying soft moans as drops fell onto the bathroom floor and into the sink.

I was so close now, so close to a climax of forbidden release, when the feeling abruptly stopped.

When I opened my eyes, I saw my spit-covered hands holding a small white object.

My tooth.

There was no blood, no pain—just a sense of disappointment, quickly replaced by distress. Not because I had pulled my tooth, but because I had lost control.

I held the canine in my palm, wanting to drop it into the drain. Instead, I placed it on the sink’s edge, staring at this now-foreign object for several minutes.

The roots appeared black. Not rot, but something earthy. It crumbled under my touch, and as I rubbed the substance between my thumb and index finger, I felt a faint trace of pleasure.

Back then, I refused to believe it had any chemical effect. I wrote it off as a perversion I wanted no part of.

Whatever had happened disgusted me.

Yet I could not distance myself from this tainted object. I wanted to keep it close. Even closer than it had been minutes ago.

I leaned over and allowed my dry lips to engulf the lost canine. Flavors of porcelain, dried water, and dust filled my mouth as my tongue traced the surface.

I opened my eyes in surprise and disgust at what my body had done.

And I swallowed.

You might wonder why I did not seek help after losing my first tooth.

At first, I considered visiting a dentist. But I hadn’t experienced any pain before losing it, and I told myself I didn’t want to overreact. Perhaps I had uncovered something buried within myself. Something I could return to its hiding place, deep within my mind’s crevices. When people lose a toenail, they don’t panic and rush to the ER, right? But then again, they don’t eat it. So I told myself I would calm my nerves and schedule a dentist appointment in the morning. It felt right.

The air around me feels colder than usual, yet the draft’s familiar sensation doesn’t brush my face. I try to look around the room. There are no streaks of light shining through the slits in my blinds. No sounds of cars driving by or late-night passersby. Silence like this usually carries a sense of peace, a forlorn feeling that seeks out people craving nostalgia. Not tonight. Tonight, the air carries a density, like lying in an open grave. Darkness feasts, and I have yet to decide whether I am a participant or the meal.

My lips feel dry, and as I attempt to lick them, I am reminded of the socket where my missing tooth used to live. My tongue slowly slides across my other teeth. I pick up a faint earthy taste, like damp leaves pressed into the ground after rain.

As I suck my teeth to get a better taste, I almost expect a shift in some of them, but they all seem firmly attached to the bone beneath.

A thud.

I try to get up to search for whatever made the noise. It sounded invasive. Intentional. My eyes still have to adjust to the encroaching darkness, so I call out to scare off whoever is inside my room. I hear something move to my right—no, to my left. A soft, rhythmic rattling sways back and forth. I struggle to locate it. It seems to be everywhere and nowhere at once. Is it in my head?

Rattle…

I struggle to control my breathing, too scared to move, even though it already knows I’m here. I stare at my chest, then look at the bed, past my feet, and all I can see is the void staring back. It’s all around me. A presence so fetid, it makes me want to claw at my face. I imagine my nails digging into my skin, tearing at my flesh, my eyes, my cheeks.

Rattle…

“Make it stop, please make it stop!”

Rattle… Rattle… Rattle…

A warm, rancid breath hit my face. It reminds me of old, damp clothes left to rot. I turn toward its source. Two glassy eyes stare back at me. Wet hair clings to a balding scalp. Long, slender arms grip both edges of my bed frame. Something swings in front of my face, rattling with a dull, ivory glint. I open my mouth and scream—I am not the meal. I am the entire feast.

Nightmares like that became a common occurrence after losing my first tooth. They were terrifying, yet they always left a trace of something pleasant—a clarity I still find hard to explain. I began to anticipate them. Not with excitement, but with reverence. Deep within these dreams, I felt there were lessons to be learned. Secrets to be unraveled.

Every time I woke, I felt more at ease with the loss. I would get out of bed, wipe the sweat from my face, and pull at my lips in front of the bathroom mirror, revealing a row of missing teeth. I had pulled some myself, reveling in ecstasy as a warmth surged through me, a feeling I could only describe as a mother’s embrace.

Sometimes the teeth fell out on their own. I would find them in my mouth; other times, they were gone without a trace. My stained bed felt like a prison, and I became a mockery of Tantalus, craving fruits that grew harder to reach with each passing day.

Around this time, the bumps appeared. Small, circular bruises, each marked by a pale, hard blotch at its center. They felt cold to the touch. One morning, I would find them on my arms or legs, and the next they would spread or reposition themselves. I felt neither anxiety nor disgust. Instead, I prodded the blemishes, investigating them. The skin around each mark reacted to my touch, sending warm ripples through my body. The centers, however, felt painful, a sharp warning sting.

“Not yet.”

The room began to feel different. The space I had called a prison now felt less claustrophobic, transforming into a cocoon that could purify me. Was I losing my mind, or simply experiencing a metamorphosis? There is beauty in change—but only when one can embrace it.

I found myself drawn to the lost teeth. I ran my fingers over their smooth surfaces, tracing the subtle ridges of their roots. They looked as beautiful as when I first lost them. Each seemed to beckon, the polished enamel ready to consume again. I kept them in a glass jar. I could tell they liked it this way. Together. Waiting.

Over time, my compulsions deepened. I played with the teeth on my tongue, soaking in their flavor. I chewed them, felt them grind between my remaining molars, and swallowed them. I surrendered to the sensation. Immense satisfaction filled my body after returning the teeth to what I believed was their rightful place. I also tried to bury some, spending hours staring at the small heaps of dirt, imagining something sprouting. Nothing ever did, but deep within the soil, I could feel roots manifesting. A sacred ritual.

Time diluted. I only felt lucid right after losing a tooth. Everything else lost importance. I didn’t care about hygiene or food. Hunger didn’t bother me. For some unexplainable reason, the teeth I consumed provided enough sustenance. Or perhaps my own mental state prevented me from feeling any urge to meet my basic needs.

When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. Tired, bloodshot eyes stared back. A mouth stained red attempted to contort into a smile, but had forgotten how. Where rows of white once stood, there was only a gaping hole, enclosed by swollen gums. One last resident lived in this ivory city, eagerly waiting to be released from duty.

I expected it to be painful. I expected a lot of blood. But I pulled slightly, and it came loose. It felt unreal to see the last tooth lying in my palm. Everything I had endured over the last few weeks led to this. I felt disappointed. With the molar clenched in my fist, I hit the mirror, shattering its stained surface. I had to feel something. It felt unnatural to be ‘normal.’ I didn’t want this to end. Where was my reward?

I rushed into the living room. The jar of teeth—the proof of my hardships—stood on the table, its surface smudged with dried blood and saliva. It wanted me to open it, to complete the cycle and add the last tooth. But what then? What would happen once I had fulfilled its last command? It would discard me. It had harvested the fruits of my labor, leaving the soil dry. There was no other use for me. I could already feel it leaving.

No.

Clutching the jar to my chest, I made my way back to the bathroom. Unscrewing the lid, a rancid, unnatural smell filled the room. Rot.

There was no time to hesitate. It would come soon. I flipped the jar over the sink and watched in agony as the teeth clattered into the basin, swallowed by the drain. In the shards of the bathroom mirror, my reflection smiled back with a toothless grin.

I saw it before I felt it. Small streaks of red flowed from my gums. Horror set in as the drops painted the porcelain. Swallowing was difficult—the thick viscosity made it nearly impossible. My nails dug into the sink.

“Mmmake ih shtop!”

It sounded ridiculous, but it was all I could manage. I thought I would die there, alone on the cold bathroom floor, choking on my blood. I clawed at my throat, begging whatever was inflicting this to stop.

I tried to control my sobbing. I could only do one thing. Beg.

“Ah’ll doo ennyfing!”

A soft, familiar warmth flowed through my body. I caught my breath. It had worked. The bleeding stopped, but I felt weak, struggling to pull myself up by the sink’s edge. As I lay there, in a pool of my own blood, an excruciating pain washed over me. It felt like I was being stabbed everywhere. I realized where the pain was coming from: the bumps on my body had all risen. Something was trying to break through. The center of each bulging spot was hard and white.

I had to get them out. I tried squeezing, but my skin seemed too tough, and the objects underneath were not sharp enough to cut through by themselves. So, I gripped a shard of broken mirror glass, attempting to keep my hand as steady as I could while I sliced through the blistered skin. It hurt so much. I felt faint, but I knew I couldn’t pass out. If I lost consciousness then, I would never wake up. I slapped my face, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and squeezed the wound as hard as I could.

A thick, black liquid seeped out, trailing down my arm, carrying the smell of death. I needed to cut deeper—get it out. I could feel the other bumps growing. There must have been hundreds. I wiped the black paste off my arm and lowered the shard back into the wound. My vision blurred, but I kept prodding. I kept digging because I knew I had no choice. I felt it. It tried to find the surface. I could see its little root-like head peeking through the flesh.

All I could do then was watch. Watch how the little enamel bug dug its way out, fell onto the tiles, and scurried away on its root-like appendages. I dropped onto the floor and attempted to find peace, as dozens of other teeth began to cut themselves out of my body.

The harvest is almost complete. And soon, the cycle must begin anew. It will come tonight to reap what has been sown.

Don’t defile it.