I write to take away this suffering
that builds up
after years over exposure
to the outside

I write to place myself
on the operating room table
dissect each fiber and
better understand what I'm
made up of

I write to tell the world
that I'm alive
that I'm not afraid to die
that I'm willing to try
to
make the most of this time
I spend traveling around this
spherical spaceship

filled with ice and fire
love and hate
tallest trees
and smallest microbes

I write to proudly say
I reject your hate
the suffering proposed
and the so called world
you know

I write to hear the sounds of
crashing waves
see the darkness in the deepest caves
feel the clouds that roll by

I write because I'm alive

I am not familiar with your toothbrush,
not acquainted with it,
have no experience of it,
am unaware even of its colour.

I know that a toothbrush is an inanimate object.
It cannot feel,
cannot enjoy the closeness,
as it massages every surface of your teeth,
sliding in and out between your lips,
caressing your tongue, moving across
the inside of your cheeks.
It takes no pride
in performing its morning duty for you,
no pleasure in your gratitude
for the freshness it gives you.

It would be ridiculous,
surely,
to be envious of that lifeless,
insensate,
ultimately disposable
thing.
And yet ….

…. and yet I cannot totally eliminate
the feeling
as I imagine your toothbrush
in its daily moment
of intimacy
with you.