I have an oral fixation.
At least that is the psychological term I’ve chosen to describe my weird
mouth problems. There’s always something going on in there,
I’m licking my lips, biting my nails, chewing on the insides of my cheeks,
I have long, thin scars from where I’ve worried at the flesh
that I can trace with my tongue.
When I do
it looks like I’m giving the blowjob sign.
My lips are never soft enough, wet enough,
and for some reason love means moisture.
If my lips were buildings they’d be great Roman baths,
steaming and communal.
They are never satisfied, but not in the romanticized,
They are not hungry lips.
Whoever presses and prays at their cracks trying to worship away the wanting
leaves drained and adrift.
I am never happy with enough
My heart is in my mouth and you can see it in my jaw,
when I’m nervous it rocks side to side, clicking
in and out of its socket, sounds like you’re flipping a switch.
I purse and fold my lips when I’m concentrated and pin my tongue
under my top right canine when I’m angry. The tooth is a bit discolored,
I don’t know why.
My life is in my mouth and I cannot contain it.
I try to swallow but its too heavy and tastes just awful,
thought and emotion rich as baklava
I cannot chew it for fear of breaking it,
I cannot digest it for fear of excreting it,
I am not so shameful as to regurgitate it
on subway tracks or dim, alcoholic city streets.
My life is in my mouth and it writhes, writhes,
Winds and dances and flutters, and I
lick my lips, bite my nails, chew the insides
of my scarred, blowjob cheeks
and I wonder when it will end.