A crooked jaw through the middle of my bottom teeth
is a reward for a night well spent.
Charisma and charm,
the loquacious chasm between a visionary and a car salesmen.
Spent time, people, and energy
on credit
so that no one was left to stand between me and the pavement.
Now a canyon runs through my jaw
and I can’t smile right,
and my ear always hurts,
my chin clicks,
my eyes sit deeper,
my neck aches from looking over my shoulder,
tongue bleeds from biting,
mind’s weak,
linguistic chess,
anticipatory dialogue ripe with plastic fruit.
It leaves me nourished with doubt to speak outloud
and move outside my shadow.