There's a hole in my gums that peers down to the bone. Ice water makes me squeal when it kisses that nerve. There's a soapy green goo that I'm supposed to inject with an intimidating plastic syringe whenever I eat. It's a dull wet throb, deep within the jaw that you could even attribute to the normal background pains of life if only you could stop poking at it with your tongue. But you can't. The novel absence makes your mouth feel like someone else's, and like some twisted and horrible Halloween make-out session, you keep probing those bloody holes in many new and interesting ways that all make you shudder. My tongue's contortionist acts bring on new aches and cramps that add to the throbbing. Everything makes everything worse.
"Stop picking at it."
"Let it heal."
This would be great advice except that I can multi-task. I can pick at it while I do any number of my myriad daily actions. Reading, writing, typing, dishes, working, crying and masturbating-- They're all just things I do while I'm secretly thinking about my wisdom teeth. Walking down the street doesn't even seem fair: it's such a pale comparison to tongue-fucking my gum holes. It's becoming a seriously unhealthy obsession.
There's something so obviously sexual about poking these soft, bloody holes with a stiff muscle. I'm even afraid of being caught doing it in public or having someone accidentally walk in on me while I'm bleeding-again-deep in gum-pulp. It's a new and exciting way to gratify myself. The extra pain just means that it's working. And having to be sneaky about it makes it more exhilarating.
Jesus fuck, am I having sexual fantasies about tooth surgery? I need a cold shower. And some ice water. And some more of that sterile goo. And maybe a few more codeine pills.
I just grossed myself out too much and have to stop writing. But. I. Can't. Stop. Picking. At. This. Thing. With. My. Tongue.
The writing can wait. I gotta play with this before it heals!
