You're clinging to me, hanging on by a tiny thread of festering flesh, and instead of yanking you out, I just keep touching you with the tips of my fingers, gingerly running my tongue over you, tasting your warm, salty rot, and letting you stay. I'm hoping that someday you'll just fall out on your own, and I won't have to feel that godawful rip—the one where my skin snaps and you take a little piece of me with you when you go. I don't want any get-it-over-with tricks, no slammed doors, no swift jerk to get you out quick and leave me with a mouthful of blood. I don't want a professional poking at me, pumping me full of godknows, and putting me under; I don't want to wake up hours later, swollen and stinging with a bill to pay. I don't want my friends trying to help, telling me to tear at you like you were a band-aid, trying to take the matters of my mouth into their hands. I don't want them icing my wound. I don't want there to be a wound. I just want to lose you as gently as possible. I just want to wake up one morning to find that you've packed up your decay and gone. I don't care if I swallow you, so long as I can't feel it. It doesn't matter how long it takes, just don't let it hurt.
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