I'm laying down at the dentist.
A woman with bleached blonde hair is
hovering
over me,
her southern drawl
mispronouncing my name,
talking as she inspects my teeth;
and I can't help but think that
her numerous coats of mascara
will flake
into my mouth.
And maybe I'm allergic to something
in her cosmetics.
I am not dying at the dentist.
After she's done
she politely
asks me
if I'm enjoying the weather.
Still laying down, and still not wanting
to die,
I keep my mouth closed and nod.
"Okay, you're done."
she announces.
I get up as quickly as possible and
rush
to the door.
In the car on the way home
my mom asks me if it went okay.
I nod.
