Brush Twice a Day

It happened again.
You are inside your bathroom,
And you just locked the door.
You sit down on the linoleum,
Hiccupping, gasping
Sniffing as quietly as you can.
You sat there, trying to wipe 
Away the slugs as fast
As the back of the hand would let you,
Wondering how you can rid the sour nectar
From your eyes.
 
You sat there, and you realized
A lie, you need a lie
For why you are in the bathroom:
You stood up to open the faucet
And brush your teeth.
 
You raised the pressure as loud as you dared
To mask your jolted gasping,
You watch the green paste start to foam
Around your teeth.
And you brushed and scrubbed
Even though the snails
Trickled down the sides 
Of your nose bridge,
As if the main goal was
To slither into your gaping mouth,
Wanting to be destroyed by the foam
As they viciously licked your molars.
They didn’t manage to kill
Anything else that intends to hurt.
 
And the controversy occurring from your face
Was waging an all-out war:
Burn of the nose, dryness of the eyes --
Mint of the foam, freshness of the breath.
And you stood there brushing for more than you should have
Burn of the nose, dryness of the eyes --
Mint of the foam, freshness of the breath.
Staring yourself rectangularily in the eye
Burn of the nose, dryness of the eyes -- 
Mint of the foam, freshness of the breath.
For in this life you can’t be as equal as a square.
 
And without a voice, you said to yourself in the mirror,
“Tell me that you are the fruit with the seed.”
You kept burnishing your jaws.
Burn of the nose, dryness of the eyes --
“Tell me that it’s not right to be in need.”
The foam was thinning by the minute.
Mint of the foam, freshness of the breath.
“Tell me that hope is always there.”
Saliva was dribbling into the sink. Slime from the deceased.
Burn of the nose, dryness of the eyes --
“Tell me that you’re understood from nail to hair.”
There was only a thin gloss of green on your teeth.
Mint of the foam, freshness of the breath.
“Tell me that you’re not a lone salted grain.”
Burn of the --
You spat defiantly into the sink.
“Tell me that you never endure the most pain.”
… freshness of the breath.
 
Without a voice, 
The slugs raced out of your eyes
Like when an Olympian hears 
The report of a Titan’s gun --
Just to slow down in defeat.
Friction is mightier than the slime of a snail.
 
You rinse the evidence away,
Never truly cleaning the mess,
Only filtering, emptying 
Somewhere else;
Beware of another visit.
You finally unlock the bathroom door. 
 
And without a voice, 
You gasped so close to the mirror,
Knowing the steam belonged to you.
The distorted dew, the snails,
Formed a chain of letters on your behalf:
“I can’t.”
 
Hours trailed by,
Yet you were still left 
With eyes soaked in combustion
And a minty breath. 

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