Monday, June 20, 2011

Every day I brush my teeth and every day I spit red. Something is wrong. It’s bright red. Like I am brushing fluid blood from my teeth instead of plaque, washing them from red to white. No pain, just crimson. I spit blood. In the white bowl of the sink it looks like sickness. Like something closer to death than I hope I am. I wait for a clink of a tooth, like I am falling apart mouth first. I imagine pinching a cuspid and snapping it loose, like a dry cob of corn from a crisped stalk. I shudder to think about that really happening but torture myself with it anyway.

Teeth just falling out of my jaw makes me want to turn and run.

My tongue has just found a place in between my tooth and gum that feels full of something. A hard sliver of food that wedged. I have picked at it so vigorously with my longest fingernail and sliced it with a free string, in lieu of floss I don’t have, that it has become swollen. I am not good at self-surgery. Blood is literally leaking into my mouth from this wound I have created and I am tasting it and it is extra warm and sweet and I sort of like it.

I bet there is nothing there.

Sometimes we pick at wounds that don’t exist. Maybe it makes us feel like we are doing something to fix something that's wrong with us.

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