I brush my teeth, though they are yellow and gray.

Like a ritual, I fixate on them every single day.

Mere inches from the glass, eyes beginning to cross,

I stare in the mirror and pick apart what I have lost.

The once pearly whites, graced with years of orthodontics,

Now adorned with crooked edges and growing dark splotches.

I juice out what’s left of the long white tube.

A pea-sized dose of hope to ward off the decay.

The minty freshness? Purely a ruse.

At the end of the day, I go back to the mirror,

And I can’t help but notice them rotting away.

I’ve tried all the methods, the mouthwash, the floss

The more I address it, the more I’m at a loss.

The news gets worse, I’m undeniably rotten.

My attempts are futile, all hope is forgotten.

Decay comes for everyone,

And it doesn’t bother knocking.