In a heart shaped box, my mother keeps all her children’s teeth. All but mine.

All of her children’s pointed, ugly fangs rest in the boxes center, along with photographs that depict memories that I am not a part of.

Withered paper shows dates of my sisters and brothers beginning. All but mine.

I am the youngest of my family. I have no spot for my teeth or my day of beginning in my mother’s heart-shaped box.

I am mortal. I am unimportant. I am weak.

My family are crimson drinkers. My mother has children that have the hearts of bloodthirsty killers, villianous monsters, and forces of nature. All their hearts but mine.

In a heart-shaped box, my mother keeps all her children’s teeth. All but mine.