AS TO NOT LOSE THE MOON

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...

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