A Few Short Words

Dense Not Thick




He leaves small pleasures upon my skin in incidental dental indent, artisanal marks in off kilter circles displaying the irregularity of his teeth and our love. I lean into the kinetics of it and trace the path it takes through my system, nervous at first, in turns excited, a small point of pain pierces me deeply, dances upon my spine and dives into my heart. I don’t say anything and watch him listen. ‘I know it,’ he says, and lays his lips as balm upon my every hurt. Intake of ephemera, output of certainty, my body responds to bonding.


I wear a mouth guard now for most of any given day. Doctor Kwan, Chantal when you’re close, calls it nervous clenching, which I thought was only buttocks but apparently as part of my anxiety I bite down on myself. Hairline dental fractures from wear in the daily grind form slivers of fault line in canines and co. I tried to not but it never worked, now my mouth’s been silicon moulded to carry the stress in my jaw. Sure, it makes it hard to talk, but I find it helps my condition if I don’t chew the fat.

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