loud teeth

Written fall of freshman year of high school.

My mother says my personality is exactly like my voice, three thousand decibels louder than the average person’s and constantly craving attention. She says it affectionately, the one consistency about me is my being too much, and my constant craving for attention. The beginning of this craving - there was no beginning. But this attention spills into affection, and I was borne into a body and soul made to love every human, and boys were no exception. I didn’t need to know what dating was to know what love was. Every boy I met I would fall in love with, for at least a second; it was a constant trip over my feet, onto the floor. For my entire elementary school experience, I was in love with one boy – devoted. My undying affection towards one individual, I didn’t understand the secrecy. Every day I would tell him of my spilling affections, and he smiled kindly and did nothing.

My craving for attention manifests in different ways, throughout the year I am one version of myself. Unrecognizable to my summer version, as the sun warms the cracks up I fill to the brim of a slightly altered me. Throughout the year my attention comes from textbooks and friends, and no boys. But in the summer all the affection spills over and there is a new bloomed idea in my head every day. There was a group of boys I grew up grappling with, we progressed from playing chicken in the middle of the highways to sneaking onto the roof of the school to going out to the beach in the darkest parts of the night, where all the beautiful people would stay and laugh and laugh at nothing until four am. I don’t think I can remember a definite point of change; there was no sudden pivot that made my friends into what they were. It was a change that was never really a change, just a slight shift to the left, one quick step. They just changed their clothes, one piece at a time. The jokes started early, that one of the core boys was in love with me. It was funny, I laughed and my lip curled and my emotions waxed and waned, for in the summer I was a different me and left boys trailing in my wake. I did not deny the attention of him, I loved it, loved and love. I was not beautiful growing up, but as their clothes changed, so did my body. I became a young woman, but I claimed myself to be a goddess – and when you yell it on the top of your lungs, people really don’t care to look for the truth.

I would flirt back; I would flirt with each of those boys. I loved attention. I fed off of it. For someone to want me was for me to have succeeded. Then, that summer, the jokes grew crass. They edged from love to lust, but attention was attention. I continued to grow with my boys, continued to stay out until the sun was rising. One of them told me one night that no matter which way I turned, my eyes always managed to catch whatever light there was, no matter where it was hidden. I laughed and said thank you and let my heart soar, not because he had told me – but because a boy had told me. That is why when my emotions only began to wane, it was my fault, not theirs. I was the one who wanted attention, so why did I not want it then?

Their jokes began to pivot with them, slight shift to the left, one quick step. My skin began to crawl, as their attention turned vulgar. I laughed their jokes off, my laughter - which used to spill into other streets - was quiet.

They began to edge closer to me, began to steal things that they shouldn’t steal. They would hold our friendship high above my head, if I didn’t do this why should I be able to smile with them? Didn’t I like the attention? For a person who craves attention to be told it would be taken away from them was a nightmare. But we always laughed it off. For someone who loves boys so much, you don’t like us touching you. Their jokes became rougher, not to say I did not bite back. I grew up with teeth sharper than a wolf, and I made it clear when I growled back. But there is something different when it is not only a physical toll, but a mental one as well. When there are whispers in your ears as you grow older, from both them and yourself - that they grew up with you, that you want attention. You want attention, why do you not want this?

I grew older, my body grew fuller, new boys came to our group. There were two new boys, the older one kept eyeing me. I loved it, it gave me a thrill. He had a smoker’s voice; it was as deep as voices could go. His hands spanned larger than my thighs. His younger brother wanted everything his brother had, his hands were fast. He took after my friends, if you like the smoker - why don’t you like us? He saw my discomfort and his viper eyes became venom. There is a dream I have, of his hands and his tongue, and my wolf teeth that someone keeps dulling down. It is tiring when every time you shove someone off, there is an accompanying chorus of shouts of protest from everyone. It is tiring to be told that you’re the wrong one, for not laughing and allowing it. It is tiring to be told, to think yourself, you want attention – why don’t you want it now? There is no way to describe the thought process behind a hand in your pants and your childhood friends laughing and egging it on. Telling him when your back is turned so he can go and do it again. It is so tiring when even the girls are laughing, and you keep saying stop stop stop. It is so tiring when you tell yourself every night to just stay home, but you have no better options - because a summer alone is not a summer at all.

The most crushing part of these fast hands and venomous tongues was realizing that all their soft spoken words and shouts were enough to drown out a tongue that has never been silenced, a voice that has never been less than three thousand decibels too loud. It is enough of a blow to fold oneself up into themselves, that they let this occur to them. That they were not strong enough to stop it. But my teeth were still wolf teeth, no matter how dull. And, finally, once they bit down hard and the eel remained in its grip. And, finally, my teeth tore into every friend there, and there are those who scampered off, and those who have stayed - with scars on their skin to remind them of what to never be again.