Fragments of dreams and teeth.

You were standing beneath a lamp, bathed in yellow light, packing cold earth into a mason jar, someone told me in a dream.

In a tent, my head is swimming, and some big person is pushing his body onto me. I call him filthy. I call him terrible names and cry.

There's something in my mouth. I spit our four cracked teeth and realize the rest are almost all gone already. What remains are sharp shards, exposed nerves. I feel responsible, guilty, almost, as if I've allowed all this decay to form, and am only now waking up to my ruined mouth.