it is not violent pain as much as
it is an aching absence, like wisdom teeth, like something has
been stolen from you even though it's
all your fault.
blame the universe for making your mouth too fucking small. blame the teeth
for existing, for being so goddamn
blame yourself for being so
susceptible to infection.
roll over and pretend the spots can be filled, that you could give
your cavern to anyone else, that their exploration wouldn't feel
like foreign flags;
new owners, beware,
this house is haunted, you are never safe
here. there will be doors always locked, corridors always closed to you, you will never
see the inside of the west wing, it is for sacrifices, it is a museum now, a
dead child's bedroom, frozen in time.
you have free reign of the foyer, but this place
is not yours,
we don't have permits, there will be no additions.
know that you can live
as your own nation and survive
the departure of your teeth, just hope
this stitched up mouth, this frankenstein tongue, comes
back to life. pray that love has not
taken you to dinner and, although it was nice,
they're just really looking for something else.
with luck, you will not always be this
bleeding fox crouched among the trashcans,
in its lashing,
the night-time voices pushing the hair from your forehead
shush- we're trying
to save you, trust, trust in the net, just please,
paint the ceiling so that no one knows the boarded-up attic, the parts of
yourself you banished
pray that someday you will be a row
of cornfields, that the fires of your warring country
will burn themselves into feudality, quiet citizens raking ash
from their crumbled houses-
a toothless hole, after years of bombs,
the sky was quiet and empty,
no one knew what to do with their hands.
the ache of changing when you didn't want to, how you overturned
everyone's life raft just trying to save yourself, the people you drowned
for a deserted island, a haunted
house, an empty mouth.