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What serpents serve thee? 
What sheds from under your fingernails? Brims from your eyes? Scums on your teeth? 
Is it pride? Is it tacit? 
Are you a mere beast of a man, a primal figment of a broken society? 
What clogs your pores, fucker? 

Your chipped teeth rest plated in your mouth, my brother. 
They buckle under your ignorance, my brother. 
Though ancient gray ivied stone be they, your flickering vermillion tongue dances ‘round that brilliant example of gravity's weight. 
For they’re breaking aren’t they, little boy? 
They can’t take it anymore, can they, young man?
You sure have aged, mister!
This sure has aged you, mister. 
Are you alright, sir? 

Clawing at them won’t help. 
With each breath your teeth fall away as a light loam between gums of clay, sticking your thumb straight through with a cold cream pressure won’t help when they part on their own. 
Revealing that gooey pink tissue, drenched in an opaque cotton candy mucus that you couldn’t shake in a million years. 
But that’s what you hate about it the most. 
The pink-- of feminine, of inside, of tender, of feeling, of rupture, of weakness. 

An exposure of your person, behind an exposure of your skeleton that’s been hidden too long. For the clocks are ticking. 
And, son, your teeth 
Are chipping.