Get out of mouth now.

This is not yours.

You keep prodding at my gums, don't you get it?

 

They're sensitive.

I don't floss. 

 

I can see you past the surgical mask, behind the goggles that you keep foggy with a steam of egotistical pomposity. 

You're framed by a white room, white clothes, white breaths, because everything inside of that is dirty.

 

A living cavity.

 

We both know.

 

You look at me and I figure I fester and rot. That my brain is a receeding gum line of my control, and the rotten exposed root is coming into play.

 

You keep pulling them. Pulling them, pulling them, pulling them, pulling them, wash it out with water that floods me until I can't understand which way is the ceiling and the lights drown me in a sterile syndrome, pulling them, pulling them, pulling them, replacing known fact with veneers 

 

of 

 

 

 

                                          corrected 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                         morality.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The novacaine.

 

 

That's what I know. 

 

 

 

You want to give me dentures. But I couldn't understand.

 

 

 

How.

 

 

 

And somehow.

 

 

 

I now have the dental liscence. And I can see that your mouth

 

 

 

Is just caps.