Some mornings I put on lipstick and stare in the mirror at the bright streak that’s swallowed my mouth. I like to open and close my lips, expose my teeth and check to make sure they’re still sharp enough to break your skin.  Mouths are so important, aren't they? It was my mouth that felt around in the dark for you. And it was my mouth that whispered “yes” or was it, “are you sure?” when you asked me to marry you. How I ran and ran that mouth of mine so hopeful of what was to come. I worry now that I wasted those hopes, let them slide carelessly from the refuge of my body. If I had known to bury them along my jaw, hide them where my gums bleed, maybe I’d have kept them safe. Because these days, my mouth is dry from begging, words upon words all aimed at resurrecting the dead. Sometimes, it’s all I can do to close my lips fast enough to send the bile back down my throat. 

On this particular morning, I painted my mouth red and found you in the hall. You, poised to enter, me exiting. We’ve become skilled navigators in our home. Paths deftly curated to avoid this type of spontaneous interaction. A compulsory peck to mark the passing mornings. A quick “have a good day” blurted from mouths taught to be polite. I watched you lean in, sleep still on your breath. How nice it would be to feel your mouth on mine, wet and warm like it was in the shower all those years ago; tongues curious and impatient. Instead, your lip curled just enough to reveal distaste and you expertly redirected your route to my cheek as the words “have a good day” tumbled from that rotting mouth of yours. I made it to the highway before a choking sob escaped me, the same sound an animal makes before its throat is slit.