Canker

You chew the morning like gristle from a boot heel,
that jaw-wrung grind where rust meets molar.
Not hunger. Just habit.
Just the way the mouth learns to crave
what once made it flinch.

The croissant’s a crime scene
flaked remains, burnt crust,
buttery with aftermath.
Coffee puddled in the cup
like a bruise that forgot how it got there.
You drink it anyway, because the dull insistence
is the only honest flavor left.

You smear last night’s sweat across your teeth,
a grin drawn in charcoal,
cracking at the edges.
In the mirror, your face holds
like a bent nail:
useful, if hammered right.

Beauty?
It’s in the mildew-ringed tub,
the stubble-flecked sink,
the mascara comet on the pillowcase.
She left that like a blessing,
or a hex – depends on the glow.

Truth isn’t antiseptic.
It stinks.
It’s the aftertaste of batteries,
that metallic zip of forgetting how
to be touched gently.

The ones you love always know
exactly where to stab,
like locksmiths with knives.
And you call it passion,
because calling it war
feels too cliche, even now.

This world, if it were only sweet,
would rot in a week.
Nothing festers like purity.
You need the iron tang,
the tooth-snap,
the scab peeled too soon
just to remember
that once,
you hemorrhaged for a reason.

Dance?
Sure.
But let the floor be glass
and the music make migraines.
Let every step remind you:
you’re still raw
enough
to feel.