reaching deep down in
grime between your nails, between your fingers
trying to reach all the way down but
your arm doesnt reach/ your arm doesnt reach/ your arm doesnt–
but you still reach
because there has to be something within your reach
instead, something reaches you
your arm is no longer there
a jagged toothed thing took it away
  
…
  
you reach in with your other arm

The girl who tied
     Roses around her
     Tongue in hopes
To taste no evil
Bled to death
    With thorns
          In her teeth.

we were at the beach

i had dreams
about my
teeth

they were

on the floor,
and on the sand
with a trail
of blood

and open
hands

i wanted to go
back and tell
you how much
it all meant to me

each tooth
and memory

fell from my mouth


it's going to be hard
now that you're not around

Feed from my soul
Drain me of all life
Take away my happiness
Take away my mind
Grow stronger from my pain
Grow happier from my misery
Show me your way
Show me your hate
Bring me to despair
Bring me to emptiness
Come digest me
Come destroy me
Make me hurt
Make me cry
Sink your teeth into my flesh
Sink your claws into my throat
Carnivore

Baby Teeth

I pulled the prayers from my raw gums like baby teeth. With the
          blood spat into my palm, there lay the tools with which I
          chewed up everything I ever put into my mouth. And yet even
          then I had felt the hands working my jaw for me.

Every day I tongue the empty space before meals and again at
          bedtime. There’s this moment when I feel like I should be
          saying something, but the void leaves my tongue aimless in the
          newfound space. I’ve grown accustomed to it.

I wasn’t so fond of it when they wiggled in my mouth when I talked
          or ate, acting like a broken saloon door for my roving tongue. I
          didn’t like to brag about it with my friends. It didn’t quite feel
          like a rite of passage as it did a loose Band-Aid.

They dangled on those last few roots that desperately clung on to that
          childlike innocence, which looked like Awana badges, Sunday
          school, father reading to me bedtime stories of David, the
          girlfriends in church that were always repentant after we
          touched;

I began to believe I could sew it back in if I only believed hard
          enough. It was in those last few efforts that I was at my lowest,
          when my gums started to become infected as bacteria got
          beneath the bone and festered in the flesh. I grew sorer and
          sorer.

At some point I ripped every last one of them out. The therapist had
          cancelled my last three appointments. The bible study couldn’t
          progress since it refused to answer my first three questions. I
          stopped believing an artist had to first and foremost be
          miserable.

I still keep them in a little plastic treasure chest in a cardboard box in
          the garage, along with my plastic baseball trophies and other
          sentiments unworthy of the bedroom shelves. I recycled all the
          extra bibles I previously felt guilty enough to never say no to.

Sometimes a meal looks so good I feel the need to thank someone for
          it. Sometimes I wake up so happy I need to give someone credit.
          Sometimes that’s not the case. I’m happy I don’t have the voices
          telling me through my own teeth how sinful I am.

I’m also happy they’re not telling you how sinful you are.

I tongue the space before meals and before I drift to sleep. I feel
          something growing there. My parents are looking into an
          operation that will put the teeth back in. I still fear one day I’ll
          be the one to grab the sewing kit.

I don’t fear cavities anymore. I think they took them all with them. I
          brush my teeth now and believe in modern medicine, and
          climate change. Needless to say, I didn’t put them under my
          pillow that night.

My body feels like a door that doesn’t fit its hinges
My arms feel like with each swing, their sockets are prepared to fall out
Like the bones will give out
Like the nerves will explode
Like the blood will boil
And never hold again

My legs have been numb from sitting aimlessly for years
My eyes have been blind from beauty and precision

The feeling of falling
Like your body is falling apart
The edge of the cliff or the building or the dock or the bridge
The feeling of falling

Teeth crunching
Dental bill
“Do you find that you’re grinding your teeth?”
Nerves
Cavity

Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing

Drastic expectations / exaggerations none

“We’re just calling in today to mention the eventual termination of your place in this organization.”

Body threatening to be pulled by ghosts
Ghostly wailing and demonic laughter
Astral project
Leave

Become nothing
Become husk
Become discarded shell
Stagnate

Die.

Wrap your pensive fingers
around my jaw
and pull me closer.

Make me forget that her name
is still stuck between your teeth;

show me what it's like
to forget the
                        pain.

- k.m.

Your teeth are real
They're ugly like mine

Your smile isn't ugly like mine
It's not real either

The perseverance of the three legged cat that sleeps in my alley pulls me from my bed each morning.

It stretches its hind leg, taking no time to remember when stretching was a simpler task, minding the gap, yet not feeling empty.

It limps from my alley and continues its search for food, or meaning, or whatever cats search for, and I limp into my bathroom, searching for meaning, but settling for a toothbrush.

I scrub away last night’s dreams of teeth falling from my mouth.  I remember feeling the weight of my off-white molars in my palm, the rough outer edges in numb fascination. I spit the memory into my sink, and rinse.

The kitchen window has a nicer, if less inspirational, view than its brother in my bedroom.  I’ve watched the tree that blocks the city be reborn a dozen times, yet I still feel anticipation every time the brownorangered starts, and I wonder when I’ll grow new leaves.  I grab the sugar bowl from the table for morning coffee, but my grip is weak - I’ve always had trouble holding onto things.  The bowl slips from my fingers, and the ground is covered with porcelain, off-white shards.  I study them, finding a home in the familiarity, and begin to pick up the pieces.