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A Hundred different shades
of lip balm,
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I like to notice things. Little things. I like to observe relationships, how our bodies reflect our personalities. I like how lips move. My father’s lips- although very rough at the edges, I see softness in their shape, like marshmallows roasting by the fire on a cold winter night. One can notice the intricate detailing of the cracks his chapped lips have to offer. Almost as if a drought had hit him. “Use lip balm honey,” Mama says, with her lips as fresh as a dewy rose. The beautiful pink glazes my eyes every time I see those glossy porcelain lips. Like a doll’s face, so fragile, that one little blow will smash them into a million pieces. So precious, that it holds her smile together. My lips look like Sarah Graham’s art. Sweet, like she paints her candies. I like how the flushed red of the lips pop on my face perfectly, like Haribo gummy bears waiting to be eaten.
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