musings upon a morning's...

brush  
 
with death  
is what these canines and crowns  
get through thrice most days  
such horrible stench perhaps the one of decay  
if not for the toothbrush's morbid routine  

the washing  
 
they say water cleanses, purifies  
perhaps a symobilc ritualistic necessity  
the bath  
a futile fight against (one's) nature  
yet we do it, till it is done, for us  
 
 
the look  
 
into the mirror  
oh the mirror  
how it tells me the opposite  
of what i am  
 
 
the linen  
 
the wrinkled, scrunched chaos  
that is the bed  
refuses to let me leave  
till it is sorted into order  
neat and folded so unlike the insides of my head  
 
the lock  
 
the autopilot ensures  
the front gate is reached  
before the OCD sends me back  
to check one last time  
the knob doesn't turn