They say love requires sacrifice.

I just didn’t know:
  mine would involve…

       power tools

  and a team of masked torturers.

It started with hope—
   "Maybe it’s just the plaque."

Four words I never thought…
     would seal my fate.

So here I am,
   paying the toll
   in
   blood and enamel,

   trading my dignity for dental dams.

Handing over my afternoons
       to the high priests
                 of plaque.

Scrape,
  drill,
    rinse,
      repeat.

Then: again. (and again?*#!)

At this point,
    my molars
    have seen
    more action

    than a high school prom.

But oh,
    the promise at the end—

    to kiss without consequence,
    to press lips to hers—

    without triggering a full-blown
                    biohazard event.

And for that?

Fine.

Bring on the next appointment—
                  the needles,
                  the numbing,

      the soul-shaking whine of the drill.

Because if love is a battlefield,
  I’m just out here
      paying the *Kiss Tax*.