Brushing my teeth. 

A simple task, really. 

but the plaque you left on them remains. 

I scrub and scrub, I wish it would desapate, at least from the surface. 

Your lipstick stains them like crushed red roses on pearly white sheets. 

Except, it's not your shade of lip at all, but rather my gums bleeding from how hard the brush has been pushed against them. 

You never liked crimson, 

and never enjoyed bleeding. 

but I know you'd much rather paint your house as burgundy as your bloodied heart 

when compared to the colour of my scarlet gore. 

you'd much rather deal with your own bleeding than mine. 

But yet, I was the only one you spilled time and time again. 

Mouth wash burns when I pass it through my lips, but I feel like my insides are all dirtied without it.

Like a fire that needs to be provided for anything else to ever grow again. 

By the time I propel the fluid into the bottom of the sink it is no longer blue in colour. 

But instead, it is a thick, deep, treacherous violet purple. 

The ruby cells dye it like art. 

I don't think Vincent Van Gogh was that anxious about his teeth and tongue. 

After cleaning it all out, 

my gums are raw and it becomes hard to talk. 

Maybe, now that I've tidied where my words come spout, I'll learn how and when to shut my mouth. 

Perhaps I could stop myself from falling into the trap. 

Maybe, some day, I won't brush my teeth like they are the enemy. 

                                                                 Ariah Christman