The thought of space makes me nervous
so I gnaw on the inside of my mouth,
right under where my bottom lip lies
until it tastes like flesh,
like the harsh tint of red but I never actually bleed.

The pain waxes and wanes:
a moon both far and near with
some gravity that pulls my teeth in,
like tides pulling into an open wound.

When I get home, I rush to the bathroom and
get close to a mirror, pull my lip back,
and I see little white craters of infection;
marigolds sprout from the
raw spots, like blooming suns rife
with saliva and gore.

I brush my teeth and it hurts,
swish gravity and heat back and forth in the basins of my jaw,
twist it around the enclaves of enamel,
more like how wind powers the swing of waves.

I spit out a poem of saltwater and spurred golden petals,
rush to get it down somewhere other than the sink before
the moon slides completely down the drain.