Inside

The hygienist asked me to lift my tongue

and I saw it

for the first time—

really saw it—

the pale color,

the texture,

the fact

that I've always had this

inside me

and never

thought

about it.

Now I can't stop.

I touch it

with my own tongue

and the feeling

is wrong,

is intimate,

is like discovering

something

private

about

myself.

The color is too pale.

Like something

that should stay

hidden,

that should never

see

light,

that I was

never supposed

to notice.

The texture is bumpy,

veined,

more alive

than I want

anything inside me

to be.

Three days

and I'm thinking

about it

constantly.

Alone

in my mouth

I touch it

and try

to remember

what it felt like

before

I knew

it existed,

before the hygienist

said

lift your tongue,

before

I became aware

of this

pale, textured,

veined

thing

that's always

been there.

It feels like

a weakness,

like noticing

something

I should have

always known,

like someone

showed me

an intimacy

I didn't

ask for

and now

I can't

unsee it.

I run

my tongue

across it

again.

Still there.

Still pale.

Still wrong.