Lips

This is me surreptitiously tonguing my lips after you kissed me goodbye. Caressing the lacerated strips of flesh that hang by a thread, my salivated tongue swirls into the intoxicating crimson of memory.

This is me talking to myself in public. As I tiptoe through social conventions, my mouth mumbles vague weightless obscenities unto the void. Rich people. Beautiful people. Perfect people born with silver spoons lodged in their mouth, spitting out self-righteous poison or singing loudly about their scars. Sometimes I think my birth is a mistake that I’ll be spending my whole life trying to correct. But I bet you hate yourself for not feeling real enough unless people are watching.

The only reason why we ask other people how their weekend was is so we can tell them about our own weekend.

This is me locking eyes with those at the back of my head. When nobody looks at me, my eyes can stare a hole in them. I pick out the minutest details that I’d never have gotten if they would ever return my gaze. A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection. This is my revenge. Your face is my piñata.

When we don’t know who to hate, we hate ourselves.

This is me licking my lips on the mirror. You can’t kiss someone who has no lips. You don’t say you love someone when you don’t.

Oh but sometimes, you do.

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