Face / Mouth

[Part of the Body Series]

My mouth is just a mouth, like any other mouth. That’s a good book: Any Other Mouth by Anneliese Mackintosh. (So Happy It Hurts was not as good but Mackintosh proved to me that people actually DO want to read about the experiences of a young woman with borderline personality disorder).

My top lip is thinner than my bottom lip,
which I bite to stop myself from screaming.

I own about 60 lipsticks and only wear one of them. I collect them for some reason. Probably because they’re easy to steal, but maybe because I’m subconsciously hopeful, longing for the day that I can apply lipstick to myself by myself without making a mess of it, the day when my hands don’t shake anymore, the day the essential tremor packs up and leaves me. A girl can dream.

My mouth shouts and spits and smokes and swears.

My favourite lipstick is #30 in Kate Moss’ Rimmel range. I don’t wear it anymore because I am too self-conscious and don’t want to draw attention to my mouth: according to some people (and the police, and even worse, according to some judges) wearing lipstick is an invitation to be sexually assaulted. In the meantime, my ridiculous collection of lipsticks lie in their plastic bag and bitch about me every time I choose Old Faithful, a matte stick which is the exact same colour as my lips are naturally, so when I make mistakes it doesn’t show but I feel like I’ve made an effort by putting it on.

My mouth kisses and laughs and sips and smiles and sings and swills wine.

My teeth are in my mouth, which is great. I had 5 wisdom teeth which, according to my brother, makes me “more wisdomous” than you. The 2 that half-erupted from the same spot (upper right) were finally taken out after giving me 6 years of hell. One crumbled into pieces upon contact with the wrench, and one looks exactly like the sort of bastard that would give you 6 years of hell. I gave the latter tooth to my boyfriend. So far I have only given him 3 years of hell but I’ll keep you posted.

My mouth can make lots of shapes,
but mainly it makes a straight line.

I often think about my remains being found and my identity only being confirmed through my dental records. The receptionist at the dentist’s office is about as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle: the police would have a hard time locating my records as she can never seem to find them when they’re needed and it’s literally her one job.

I don’t feel so wisdomous anymore.

Sometimes, I am silent. Days can go by without me speaking a single word aloud. When that happens, my mouth is clamped shut by invisible staples. I feel physically unable to open my mouth, to form words, to hear myself speak, to voice anything at all. Sometimes it is better to be silent. To just listen. To just write. To just be quiet. To just be.

[Read more: PiercingsTattoosBonesDiscoveryScarsHair, and Face / Name]

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