Open-Mouth Surgery

Open-Mouth Surgery

a poem by Asher Barzaga

Remember the time you first told me to smile?

You followed it up with all kinds of personal questions.

How often do you floss? Do you smoke? When was your last check in?

“You are so bold,” I thought.

In truth it had been years.

My last experience wasn’t the best, and the pain wasn’t worth without some kind of insurance.

Eventually I regained some much-needed assurance and I was ready to try again.

Well, that and my newly vulnerable chipped tooth.

So here I am, opening myself to someone I didn’t truly know about 5 minutes ago.

Your hands were pale white, but warm, warmer than any other hands that caressed my face.

Your eyes, they shined, halogens, spotted, not flooded.

You couldn’t wait to know me.

I was hesitant at first.

Why did someone care? Do you really care? Why would you want to fix me?

“It can be saved,” you said. “The nerves, they’re not completely dead.”

You said that so nonchalantly.

After a few seconds of getting to know me I began to feel numb.

I was afraid of course, I thought about shutting out.

All I could think about was the past and how I’ve been hurt before.

You just said, “Let me know if you ever feel pain.”

It was strange.

Your actions, they pierced me, but they didn’t hurt.

There was a surreal realization inside.

You saw the worst of the worst and still kept going.

After a couple of hours we were done.

You kept up with your honesty.

There might be some pain later, if that happens just let me know.

You gave me a reason to smile again.