Pleasurable Pastime

I fell face-first into the ground, smacking my lip on the dirty concrete ending our game of tag. The culprit, my sister, woke me up the next morning for breakfast. I brushed my teeth. What usually took me ten minutes took me almost half an hour. There were slow, careful strokes and still I had a couple jolts as toothpaste leaked into that throbbing, bloody bruise. I would then freeze and stare into the mirror at those very eyes grew cloudy from a watery mess that was about to occur. Then I would continue. I ate my breakfast, slow and steady trying my best not to open my mouth too wide. Dead lips hung there untouched by neither the warm yellow eggs nor the crispy, salty bacon. But when coffee was brought to its attention, it was revived as the hot mug pressed against naked sore. A soft moan escaped from between those lips as my eyes closed tight and my entire body paralyzed, all except for that lip. I released a slow exhale, opening my eyes to realize that breakfast must be over for me. I felt the table, unsatisfied.

I dragged my empty body up the stairs and back into my freshly prepared bed. I plopped my back against the clean, white sheets and slowly breathed. I nurtured my wound; gently patting the crusty shell that lay over its inner core. Still throbbing, still as painful as it was on the day that I fell. I let the tears come. Not because the pain invited it, but because I did. I let it come to erase everything. The pain, physical and emotion, my struggle, and the memory. The memory of falling face-first into the ground, smacking my lip on the dirty concrete that put an end to my little pleasures.