i was born
with a lip incompetence,
meaning – at its
relaxed state – my mouth

rests slightly ajar,
my upper lip
raised above
my buck teeth

in the shape of
a triangle.
growing up,
the neighborhood kids

could not decide
between calling me
dorito
or squirrel.

when you have
body dysmorphic disorder,
you cope
with each trigger

through comedy –
like
when people ask
how it is

to have dysmorphia
i tell them
i quit my job at subway
because

i was irrationally angry
at the chip rack,
that when i say
i have nuts in my mouth

one cannot tell
if i am
giving a blowjob
or simply

​

saw my face
in a mirror.
between laughter,
i do not speak

of how my lips
unconsciously purse
when i open
my front camera.

how i bought
an N-95
three years
before the pandemic, or

how i moved to Boston
so i could justify
wearing a wind mask outdoors.
when my mom asks

why i joke
about my face
so much,
i want to say

dysmorphia
is a language
of non-verbal ignorance;
that since my teeth

do not fit
in my mouth,
my tongue
bends

each bone
to be beautiful,
that my jaw
is most pretty

in a punchline.
except
when i do speak,
all that comes out is

​

hey mom,
what do you call
an anorexic
with buck teeth?

a rake.

when she figures out
what the joke means,
i have already found
three excuses

to leave the conversation,
because it is easier
than explaining
why i don’t smile

in family photos,
or why i buy
so much mouthwash,
or why

i begged her
to get braces,
or why
i fucking hate

Alvin and the
Stupid Fucking Chipmunks.

i am so good
at biting my tongue
but so bad
at keeping my lips shut.

i know i’m freaking out
over nothing –
but when i’m eating a cupcake
and see my teeth marks

in the frosting,
i choke
on my own disgust.
when i walk past a mirror,

​

i stop
and count each atom
between my lips
until i’ve swallowed

my whole throat
and pulled each tooth
like a pill.
when i say

i’m always
behind the camera,
i mean that
my mouth

is an ever-agape
aperture of flesh,
that my front teeth
are two flashbulbs

of buck-white enamel
i can’t turn off.
sometimes,
i leave the room to eat

so my friends
don’t see me
chewing.
how do i explain that

to my mom
and not sound insane?
how do i speak
when my tongue hides

from its own vocabulary?
i am always
three wisecracks away
from a panic attack.

still,
i know that i
am gorgeous.
when people ask

​

what’s wrong
with my teeth,
i tell them
my mouth hangs open

because my jaw
is so dropped
at its own beauty.
that i am constantly

gasping at my own
reflection. that my mouth
is a prophet
of mixed metaphor magic

that knows 1000 synonyms
for the word beautiful
and knows that it is
every one of them.

when they ask
what i mean
by beautiful,
i tell them

it is cheering
each time i see
sandy cheeks on tv,
her gummy grin and

endless fangs.
it is shamelessly
inhaling three bags
of doritos

because fuck you
they’re fucking delicious.
it is telling my mom
after years

of searching
for the right words.

that
is the most beautiful thing
i have done.