Chap Stick Addict

It’s like crack-cocaine for the lips that darn tube of Chap Stick. I don’t want it. In fact I hate it. I hate needing it. But every time I stop using it, my lips get all cracked and dry and cry out for the tingle of Dimethicone 2% and Octinoxate7.5%. They crave the soft stick of moisture to spread itself upon their deep caverns of longing. To submerge themselves in SPF 20 protectant and a light, silky layer of candy coated wax. Nothing screams, soothing, like a dab of Propolis to my aching kissers.

What is this miracle balm I speak of you ask, why it’s a wax-like substance made from flammable, plant secretions, yes, I said secretions, that are used in varnishes, printing inks and plastics, that’s collected by honeybees from tree buds then used as a cement, yes, I said cement, to seal cracks in a hive, or in this case, my chapped smile-bearers. Cement? Well, there ya go. No wonder I can’t get enough of it. Who doesn't enjoy spreading a urine based, rock like substance directly to their lips? I know I do. My love-transferrers long for it, to be transformed from a pale, dull shade of peach to a shiny hue of rose. They get excited when my hands reach for the smooth barrel of refreshing toxic waste and position themselves in a pout, ready for just one more hit off their precious cylinder. The funny thing is, there’s a clear warning on the back that says you should stop use if irritation occurs. Well, I’m irritated. Irritated at my secret-whisperer’s dependency on a chemical blob of lies.

Listen up Crack-Stick, I do not need you. I do not want you. But oh how I desire your touch. I cannot stop using you. I carry you everywhere I go, tucking you silently in my pocket, my purse, my drawer, my nightstand, hidden behind my keyboard, and yes, even in the cushions of my couch. I am trapped by your relief giving power. Weak to the way you make me forget about my pain. I try to quit you, but you keep coming back to me disguised as a colorant or gloss. You even mix yourself with flavors of cherry, mint and vanilla to trick my lips into believing they've moved on. But they haven’t. They will always need you. They will always pucker at your lure. I wipe you off, but the agony always advances, louder, dryer, more chapped than the application before. Oh, cursed tube, I do not want you. I hate you. Come to me once more.