Yet again I find myself playing surgeon in the bathroom. 
It is 3am, and I am trying to squeeze my father's essence out of my pores,  
though force solves nothing. This I know.  
 
As a child, I could hardly pull out my loose teeth. 
I always preferred to let them fall,  
far from the tree or not,  
when they're ripe; 
blackened and crumbling,  
having long overstayed their welcome  
and even having invited over their friends, Pest and Trouble. 
Teeth tumbled 'til I had to train my crooked smile and bite back a fear of dentists.  
 
Still, when my shift is up, I must concede: 
even this train of thought is a rotten habit, inherited