Open

She asked "How's work going?" and the suction tube

was already in my mouth. I made sounds—

not words, something between yes and no,

between fine and drowning.

She laughed like it was charming.

Like I was choosing this, this vulnerability,

this perfect honesty that I couldn't defend

or take back.

I sat there with my head tilted back.

Light burning my eyes. My face reflected

in her safety glasses—mouth open,

throat exposed, completely useless.

That's when I realized: this is surrender.

This is what happens when you can't protect yourself.

When your body just admits it.

When she let me close my mouth

she was already moving on. Scraping.

Rinsing. I was just the next mouth,

the next set of teeth in an afternoon

of teeth.

But I keep seeing myself in those glasses.

My reflection with my mouth open.

My throat. My inability to lie.

And I'm not sure if I learned something

or just learned that I'm someone

who surrenders that easily.