Feeding Frenzy

In the middle of puberty
I turned into a Great White Shark;
all my pubes fell out,
replaced by that fish-belly baldness;
my braces tried in vain
to hold back the rows of 

pearly-razor-white triangles,
and the dorsal fin
sprouted from my back like
an erection.

But even worse, a sliver of desire spread
across the ME inside,
a slow crack across a windshield,
and next it opened into
an earthquake rift of need
for Feeding Frenzy.

At first I went to the park
and public toilets,
and giving in was like
cutting the taut pit bull leash:
the mauling and the warm gush.

I got my gills the same day my voice broke.

My parents bought me sunglasses
to hide the black sky of my eyeballs,
suggested I conceal my smile,
and let me sleep inside a cold waterbed,
but they didn't really understand.

And now I'm starting to understand what they
really mean when they say
a shark dies if he stops swimming.

I had some problems at school: 

the vat of chum in Home-Ec,
slicing the swim-team Speedos
with the edge of a tooth,
and then I wiped out the entire wrestling team
in the locker room showers.

In the newspapers they said I couldn't help it.

Now the scientists keep me
in a special tank at Sea World.
All the pitiful Shamu-watchers are afraid
to touch the glass,
but sometimes in the night,
my true fans jump the gate to visit;
it all begins with a simple flirtation:
a warm limb dangling in the water,
a seductive fin creasing the surface,
the playful slap of my tail
as I indulge a stranger's
decisive plunging in.