Itching of the teeth

Have you ever felt your teeth itching?

I don’t mean that annoying sensation of something stuck between them, or the greasy awareness of plaque. I mean a real itch — something deep, something primal. An itch that doesn’t sit on the surface, but pulses up from within the roots, like nerves igniting, scre

At first, I thought I just needed to brush. So I did. Brushed, flossed, rinsed — religiously. Nothing changed. I tried scratching the front of a tooth with my fingernail. I felt the contact, sure, but it was like scratching glass when the itch was behind it. It didn’t help. Out of desperation, I started grinding my teeth. The pressure helped — briefly. But the moment I stopped clenching, the itch returned wi

I tried to ignore it. Ice to numb the jaw. Gum. Hard candy. I even drowned myself in hours of video games just to distract my mind. But the itch didn't care. It dug in deeper. Eventually, I tried to sleep it off.

Try sleeping with an itch you can’t scratch.

I writhed. I bit my pillow. I gnawed on my own fist. Anything to dull the gnawing sensation. Morning came, and with it a sleep-deprived, pain-warped version of myself. I staggered to work with a face twisted in tension and a stomach full of bitter coffee. Later that day, I called my dentist and booked an appointment. A week away. I thought I could hold out.

I couldn’t.

Two sleepless nights later, something inside me cracked. I scoured the internet in a frenzy of bloodshot scrolling and then, almost on a whim, I checked my teeth in the mirror. One of my molars — the farthest one — had a hairline fracture running through it. When I touched it, a sharp pain lanced down my jaw like white fire.

I figured I’d been grinding too hard. So I made a decision.

If my dentist couldn’t help me, I’d help myself.

I don’t recommend extracting a tooth by yourself. The logistics alone are brutal. The tools. The angles. The noise. It took multiple attempts, and by the time the tooth came free, my mouth was warm with blood. I rinsed, spit, gasped. Then I examined the molar. It was cracked, all right — split nearly down the middle. Probably needed to come out anyway, I told myself.

But then I turned it over, and that’s when things… shifted.

It was hollow.

Not in the way a tooth decays. It was completely empty inside, like a white shell. The enamel was there, but there was no density. No pulp. Just a thin shell, like the casing of a disappointing chocolate egg. I frowned. Maybe part of the root broke off inside my gum?

I opened my mouth again and that’s when I saw it.

A tiny yellow stalk was poking up from the socket. It shimmered slightly in the bathroom light, curling gently, like a sea plant swaying in invisible currents. I touched it with a trembling fingernail, and when I did…

My knees buckled.

There’s no way to describe the feeling properly. It was as though every itch I’d ever known, every suppressed twitch, every unsatisfied craving — had been scratched at once. A deep, euphoric satisfaction washed through me, paralyzing and exquisite. It was too much. It was perfect.

And then I realized — the itching had stopped. That corner of my mouth felt peaceful, soothed. The rest of my teeth, though... they began to throb with a hungry rhythm, demanding the same treatment.

I cried, half in relief, half in dread. My tongue flicked over the stalk again, and I moaned involuntarily. It was like being baptized in electric silk. I knew, deep down, that I had no choice.

To stop the itching, I had to continue.

Tooth by tooth, I pulled them. Each one hollow, each root replaced with a yellow stalk that pulsed and swayed and begged for my touch. And touch them I did. I couldn’t stop. I still can’t. I live for the feeling now, that sharp, divine release.

The itching is gone. That’s the important part.

My partner comes home tonight. She’s been complaining about her teeth lately too. I smile — or rather, I bare my gums, letting the cool evening air kiss the delicate stalks that bloom where teeth once lived.

Maybe she’ll understand.

Maybe she’ll let me help.

Maybe she’ll thank me.