Grinding the Gears

The dentist showed me the damage

in high-definition blue.

My molars are flat as paving stones,

smoothed down by the things I didn't say

at the staff meeting or the funeral.

I wake up with the top of my head

screwed on too tight.

The night guard sits in its little bath,

a plastic ghost of my own violence,

waiting for the sun to go down

so I can start the work of eating myself again.