Another night another dream about teeth. They fall from your gums. A rotten, cracked, ivory rain. Coffee stained marbles rattle down the drain. They fill up the bathroom sink. Look up. Your reflection smiles like a Jack-o-lantern. There’s a hail storm brewing between those lips.
If you covered your mouth your cheeks would fill up like a chip monk. Your canines, your molars, your wisdom teeth. The new teeth behind those teeth. They’re still coming in. They click in your mouth, ball bearings inside a spray can. Unhinge your jaw and spill.
You’re a slot machine with bone coins. The tooth fairy hit the jackpot on you. They tumble out in a sepia tone blur.
Turn your head to the left, and try to wake up. Turn you head to the right, and try to wake up. You can almost feel the pillow beneath you, but you loose it when you choke down an exposed root. Choke, cough, spit.
Some of the teeth don’t even appear to be human. Big beaver incisors. Sharp shark bicuspids. Snake, crocodile, and lion fangs. We found the missing link.
Turn your head left, turn your head right. Feels like the pillow is on top of you. Someone has filled it with sand. You’re not breathing right. The tooth fairy is sitting cross legged on your rib cage. Pushing you down. Holding you tight. She’s come for the rest of your bones.
In the dream the sink spills over onto the tiles, as white board game pieces gather at your feet. You sneeze. A set of canines shoot through the mirror. The glass cracks in lightning lines. It chips off. Fragments roll down the hill of teeth to shatter on the floor.
This is not happening.
What you hear is the sound of angel wings flapping in your ears. Slow and hard, like a heart beat. Bump-bump, flap-flap, bump-bump, flap-flap. Louder and louder until the sound distorts into static. Bump-bump, buzz-buzz. This must be how Frankenstein’s monster felt right before it woke up.
Turn your head left. This is not happening. Turn your head right. This is not happening.
Alien abductees report feeling paralyzed in bed. Unable to move when thin grey skinned, almond eyed creatures took them aboard their ships.
You wanna laugh and say, “She’s no alien. She’s the tooth fairy!”
In the dream you’re up to your knees in teeth. A child drowning in a ball pit. Kicking is an empty gesture at this point. They’re in your pajamas. They’re barracudas gnawing at your ankles. They’re scraping your calves.
Turn your head. Left, right, left, right, nothing. You’re on her ship, and she’s got a laser sighted drill in your mouth. Chiseled bits of you land on your cheek, as a little cloud of smoke rises off your face. She’s sewing tracking devices into your gums. Little metal beads with bar codes on them. Just a little malpractice behind a sepia toned moon.
In space no one can hear you scream.
In your nightmare you try to quote dream interoperation books.
Teeth falling symbolizes: change in the near future.
Teeth falling symbolizes: anxiety over personal appearance.
Over exaggeration of worries.
A lack of your voice being heard.
A sense of powerlessness.
In space the tooth fairy speaks with telepathy. She says, “You need to be more assertive.” She glares at you with almond eyes as big as foot balls. She says “You need to learn the value of your own opinion. You need to make your voice heard.”
You call her a “succubus.”
She says, “Ah that old chestnut.” She taps her fingers to her chest, “Hey buddy, I’m just trying to help. I came to you under the guise of a false awakening to tell you this. Put up or shut up, kid. Either let life happen, or to make it happen.”
Your eyes are fixed on the laser sighted drill as you say, “Is that all?”
She shakes her head, “You should smoke less. You’re turning your cavities into ash trays, you know.” She rolls those almond eyes, “And all that coffee. Without a proper fluoride treatment you could have stains for life.”
You add, “And I should what? Floss three times a day?”
She shrugs those pointy shoulders, “It wouldn’t hurt.”
Then your bed room fills with a wave of blue light. The flash from an old fashioned camera. One spark and it fades back into the northern lights.
Turn your head to the left. Turn your head to the right. Feel the pillow beneath it. Strip the sheets away. Get up, go to the bathroom, and brush your teeth. Rinse yourself out. Look at the roof of your mouth in the mirror. Search for scars. Sigh when you find nothing.
Go back to bed and make yourself a promise. Don’t speak it aloud, don’t even type it. Just remember…
In your dreams there’s a little secret behind a sepia toned moon.