Sweet Tooth

My teeth rot from the inside out. Though I wish this were only a metaphor, the piles of paper tucked into my purse are proof alone. I feel the layers of my body of my being sloughing off like the skin of my feet. I’m scared. And I’m falling under. And there’s a part of me that weighs me back down beneath the waves, a part that wants to drown. A part of me that accepts this quiet reckless death as the easy way out that it is. And it’s terrifying. The nature within me and its instincts fight for release, for a desperate breath above the surface no matter how sharp or cold it all may be. I’m scared. I don’t know how long I have left, how much time there is between this cold tumultuous death and the choice of swimming upwards towards the harsh thirsty angry surface. How much longer do I have before the decision is made before me. Before I can take a deep cold and hollow breath. Do I let it?

I don’t think I’ll last.

I’m a sweet tooth with a dangerous kind of love for candy. A drowner with a passionate thirst for salty water.