you and me – POSTCARD #47
“Man seeks to escape himself in myth, and does so by any means at his disposal. Drugs, alcohol, or lies. Unable to withdraw into himself, he disguises himself. Lies and inaccuracy give him a few moments of comfort.”
My teeth are falling out. They crumble into my hands in shards. I spit handfuls of them out and sob in between heaves. They’re sharp. Brittle. Black.
I run my tongue over the teeth remaining and realise it’s not over. More are loose. I cough and a large molar falls into my palm. It’s not discoloured. There are no holes. This tooth shouldn’t be in my palm.
The rest are my fault. I know they were inevitable. The rotting, broken teeth. But this one isn’t fair. I shove the pointy edges back into my mouth, but my gums have already smoothed. Hardened. My tongue runs along the edge, worrying the delicious itch. I press harder and pain overwhelms the itch as a satisfying burst of blood fills my mouth. I swallow the metallic taste and am reminded of your come. The new teeth break through and I try to remember the exact taste of you but the fresh blood running down my throat and chin swamps the memory. I look into the bathroom mirror and laugh at the shadow standing before me. I look at the sink filled with my rotten teeth as new ones emerge and imagine this would be the kind of dream that would disturb you.
I decide when I wake up and roll into your arms, I won’t tell you. I’ll kiss your ribs and remember I shouldn’t tell. If I do I’ll be disappointed by your silence. Your lack of courage. I smile into the mirror, exposing my new bloody teeth and wake with a gasp. My back is covered with a thin film of sweat and I reach through the pillows already deciding to tell you everything before I realise you’re not there.