I Bought a Toothbrush

The other day, I bought a toothbrush. The dentist was nice. I had rescheduled my appointment twice already, so they had more work to do. She caused a lot of pain and bleeding, but comforted me. I felt so close to her. She was shorter than me, and had freckles. My heart is fluttering a bit writing this, and I'm also self conscious. She felt intimate inside me. Disgusting, pathetic, wretched, ugly, yet loved. I came in early because she asked me to, though I was going to leave work anyway. I don't know if I ever made eye contact with her, I just heard her voice. I couldn't bring myself to look at her, even when we talked face to face. She was kind and patient and checked in on me. I felt small when I was with her, she protected me. She knew things I didn't, and explained them to me. She was my mother, despite being nearly my age. Je te Veux. She encouraged me to take deep breaths and helped me stay calm. There's something so kind and safe about being vulnerable and disgusting and yet still being treated with compassion and sensitivity. She didn't suggest I buy it, I was the one who asked. I probably overpaid, but I don't want to make choices about things like this. I don't think I want to see her again. I had a pleasant time, but I don't know if it can be captured again. I don't want anything from her. I'm glad it happened. I forgot I had a body until she had me hold a mirror. I felt disgusted and embarrassed. I'm trapped here, and I can't get out. I don't like having my experience mediated through this creature. Though what possible alternative could I request? To whom? I'm sorry. But I didn't mind so much when the flesh was in pain. It was apt, appropriate, fitting, deserved. I want to be hit and hurt, and then cared for and comforted, but still a little fearful; Fifteen Fathoms, Counting. I am Lily. I don't know what I want. I can't know what I want. I didn't like that my parents made me take piano lessons. Sometimes seeing numbers calms me; this is sad. The burden to inhale for the remainder of my life is nearly too much to bear. Exhaling is a far greater misfortune. I want to be tenderly ripped, torn, cut, and shattered. Gently kiss me while inflicting wounds on this husk I call “my” body. I want to feel your warmth mix with the heat of the blood seeping from my skin. I can no longer tell the difference. Lick it up and softly speak to me as my tears streak down my repulsive face. The music has stopped playing. I can hear the air, but it hurts. I whine and whimper, but it's no use. It's not fun any more. I've never had fun. If I were to enjoy myself, I would be ashamed. Piercing and flowing notes. Primitive, childish, chaotic, weak. I'm scared of mirrors because I like how they look.