Every night I brush my teeth vigorously, filling my mouth up with the chalky, mint-flavoured lather until it leaks out and I am forced to spit it out into the sink. Every time, the foam is stained pink and streaked red with blood. Sometimes I floss and red cracks grow between my teeth. I swig a painfully astringent mouthwash for what seems like an eternity. It burns the tongue and recreates the ambivalent feeling of well-being crossed with pain, not unlike the sensation of alcohol swabbed on a fresh graze. I wonder if I have permanent gingivitis. I worry that it results in chronic halitosis. I wonder if I stand too close to people when I speak. I’m certain that’s why people hate me.
After my cup of tea in the morning I brush my teeth again and I spit out blood. There is some comfort that my daily ablutions are regularly fraught with horror.
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