The Dentist

I’ve ignored every toothache I’ve had and every boyfriend telling me to find dentists, get doctors, gets told that I’ll fix myself and I carry on fixing, Googling, standing in the Health section in bookshops as long as it takes: until someone tells me to buy it. Never.

Soon, my sister will qualify and every question, lump, scratch, scar, eye flash or floater, will be hers to answer, dissect, know.

I used to wait for saviours, named in songs and words written by men or god-given depending on the historical accuracy of the people teaching or talking or sprawling. Now, I am my own. And when I buckle, when the pain’s a bone burner, I call in contacts of contacts of mine, never select anyone randomly, because that would add weight to serendipity, fatalism, creationism, love.

This won’t be the first time I’ve sipped blood, smelled blood, died.

Everybody Dies

You deserve the chance to not die if you don’t want to. But there’s no cure for it. When will they find cures for it? And don’t say what’s said when questions get asked about life being eternal. Life isn’t. It’s almost.

I’ve nothing profound to add. I fucked up my time and you did. And some of the moments I thought maybe, only to realise no.

But if you die, don’t do it this way. Not like this. Don’t choose this. If a hallucination says anything it tells you you’re not sane to decide if to die.

Don’t die don’t die don’t die don’t die don’t die don’t