Day Three Hundred and Fifteen: Pull

Hey, here’s some new poetry.

into the lights

Pull

All I can see is a big white light
and your glasses, off of which it shines.
Then there’s that surgical mask,
the creeping of white gloves,
followed by all manner of metal implements.

The needle doesn’t hurt as much as you think
despite its size.
After a while your face goes numb
and in come the pliers;
hands and elbows pulling and pushing
yanking and scraping, twisting and turning
your jaw to the left, your lips crushed to the right
then a crack and a snap as the blood rushes back.

The suction hose lifts away any debris
but the metallic taste of the blood,
the head spinning, dizzying rush
stays along with the trembling

even though you felt nothing at all.

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