On Razor's Edge.

everyday that i walk through the mall's food court, i feel as though i'm walking a tightrope. an ant on razor's edge. the eyes of the crowd buzz around me and eventually stick, like insects on flypaper, to my skin. i continue walking.

later on, from behind the counter at work, i see those same eyes flashing with excitement and life. their hands wave in anticipation, these manic air-traffic controllers are all trying to avoid collisions, and all failing miserably.

i envy them their vigor. scratching at my wax paper skin, i watch the flakes fall to the carpet in a small blizzard. everything to me is dead, my actions and manner reflecting that idea. how, then, do these supposedly inferior creatures continually find what remains invisible to me? how do they find their happiness?

my shutter stays open the entire time i'm at work, blurring my surroundings into one massive, swirling tornado with myself acting as singularity.

after the half-hour drive home, staring into my room from the doorway, i realize that i've been awake for over three days straight. my empty, cold bed is no more compelling to me today than it was during the days previous. i'd rather stand, or perhaps pace, alone, than lay down and feel all the weight of my solitary confinement come crashing back to earth.

i pace the kitchen for hours. back and forth, back and forth, i'm the duck at a carnival that nobody can manage to shoot down, but not for lack of trying.

pacing feels like a futile attempt at running (or walking) away from something that i'm carrying inside.

drops of blood smack against the white tiles beneath me. instinctively, i wipe at my mouth and inspect my hands. a web of blood and saliva weaves itself around my fingers as i pull them away from my face.

a tooth falls to the floor.

with the tip of my tongue, i confirm that it's my left front tooth. i pick it up off the floor and see that it's not cracked, broken, or otherwise in any shape but perfect.

i still do not know why i did what comes next:

one by one, i pull all of the top row of teeth out from my mouth. my hands are covered in blood to the wrists, and snaking red lines to my elbows. all remaining teeth feel loose in my mouth, so i spit them, each in their turn, into my left hand. i spit tooth after bloody tooth until i'm holding a thick, bloody pyramid of about fifty teeth (much more than there should be).


i think i've had this dream before.