"A hard smart under hot wash of coffee. Beneath the pulped swell of winter citrus or a sharp draw of winter air. Not delicately, Dr. Wayne tested each molar etched through. In sleep I will fit one to another and scrape. What gnaws at me: my own mouth, now hindered and harbored by this night guard. In the day, set aside, its plastic holds a phantom jaw."
"Dr. Wayne advised softer bristles, kinder hand. Even in care, I have long justified roughness. He said Maybe this: mint paste spiked with potassium nitrate, clinically proven to hush the howl of bared nerves. He said You might practice relaxing. Let the querulous be quelled. Enamel, harder than bone- relentless bones of my fingers or the sort some dogs won't let go of."
I wake to a sharp dental sensitivity triggered by coffee, citrus, and cold air. Dr. Wayne tests molars and fits a night guard that restrains my mouth while I sleep. By day the plastic guard holds a phantom jaw. Wayne recommends softer bristles, gentler technique, potassium nitrate–spiked mint paste, and relaxation to quiet exposed nerves. I confess a history of rough care and enamel erosion, filling gaps with two half-veneers and resin patches. The desire for wholeness coexists with the admission of having rasped at what was once whole; repair does not erase prior harm.
Read at The Atlantic
Unable to calculate read time
Collection
[
|
...
]