Shrapnel

They would have given them to me if I liked but, in my state, freshly defanged, I hardly heard.

The surgeon told me the roots of my teeth were fearsome
long. I saw on the x-ray how

they reach high up into my skull. In the end they split the tooth in three, ripping each

out individually, one by one. Forty-five minutes grew deep into hours, settling in my bones.

With the tooth gone, the infection washed out with gravity, falling from me as the pressure beneath

my skin gave out and was released. I wish sometimes, I’d kept those shards. A trophy from myself.

‘These bastard’s didn’t come out easy,’ I’d say, a dumb show, knocking at my skull, ‘but she’s a tough one.’

But maybe its better to be rid of them. The wound’s all healed over, and my mouth almost fits how it used to when I smile.