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The Torture Device
December 2, 2014
I leave early,
pack my bag.
I wait for the torture to begin.
“Bump,” a pothole.
I walk inside,
my mom takes my coat.
The chair invites,
“sit down” it says.
I listen,
and wait.
A dentist comes,
he separates my lips,
and teeth.
Something metallic goes in,
blood trickles out.
More metal.
More blood.
Plenty of pain.
© Allan L., Plano, TX
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This is a poem about getting braces.