In and out,
Focusing on the molars.
The cavities and crevices.
Call me what you will,
But hauntings don't care what you are,
Nightmares don't.
I'm ashamed, I have an obsession tucked away.
But every night it claws at my cartilage,
And fills me with a compulsion that is not my own.
An alien experience stuffed into my sockets,
The foreign disgust for an imperfect job that I should not care about.
Nonetheless, it tatters me.
First through the mouth, the needle goes.
In,
Then penetrating the sinus and exiting the right nostril.
Out,
It travels into the left nostril and all but a slight popping sound proves it's entered.
In,
Twisting to the left and up awkwardly breaks to the left of the pupil.
Out,
Wrapping over the bridge of the nose it slides in at a deliberate angle, it disappears momentarily.
In,
With effort the tip peaks sloppily by the ear lobe.
Out,
Around the back of the head the last stitch is made-
But I stop myself,
no.
It can't be the end,
for the needle has only ended going in
not out.
It needs to be OUT.
But it's not.
It never is.
Sixty or so combinations come to my head, but none suffice.
I've tried them every time,
And it's never perfect.
My life is in shackles and every action I make feels muddied,
Dirtied.
All because of humanity,
Because a human head only has 7 openings.
YOU ARE READING
Laugh with a Draft
PoetryI wrote a poem, I sometimes do that. __ But in finality and purity, these words mean so much- yet I'm blinded by their insincerity. All this is, is a dishonest fold of revelation, self-accusation, and starvation. And so much more, more to be rimmed...
