Too much of anything

A single instance more is all he asks
Devoured in a moment withing the tasks
Developed by the rest of life, how hard, how far, how hard
Inside his mind he requires more
Careless of all but that single little sore
Ticking time bomb, waiting to be scarred, waiting to be free, waiting to be scarred
Itching until he brings it back to start again
Objecting to any question about it but that of when
Nearing yet a further destination, another graveyard, another bed, another graveyard

Do you know she’s found more?

Her life’s work was to help to help others, when in reality she was the only one who needed help.

Her sister scowled, finding yet another bottle. Picking the small thing up, she rattled it. There were some pills still in it. Well, that would be a few less pills that she wouldn’t be downing.

She was sleeping across the room, not disturbed by her sister plodding through her things. Maybe because it wasn’t the first time. Maybe because she was used to her sister cleaning up after her.

Even when her sister’s phone went off, she didn’t do much more than pull her pillow over her head. Her sister picked it up. “Yes?”

“Where are you?”

“Nice to hear from you too. Do you know she’s found more Xanax?”

“…damn it.”

“Will you figure out from where already?”

“Okay, okay! I’m on it. You get her clean.”

“Of course.”

They hung up at the same time. The bottle creaked in her closed fist.

Any form of it is dangerous

“Not again in this house.”

She looked at her mother in shock. She was sixteen years old. She was responsible. She had never done anything so wrong as to get such a reaction from the older woman. “But…” She swallowed, trying to sound the most sensible she could ever sound. “I don’t understand. My lips are dry.”

“Honey. You apply lip balm every five minutes.”

Her mother had noticed. The shame crept out through her very bones and she attempted to push it aside. “It’s not that bad.” They were talking about it now though and she resisted the urge to lick her lips. Resisted the urge to grab at the stick that was in her pocket.

Shaking her head, her mother pulled out a small kitchen garbage bag. She watched in confusion. Upending it over the table, her mother spilled out all of her tubes.

What she first felt was anger. Her mother had been in her room. All over her room. Her privacy had been breached.

Then came the shock. Those couldn’t all be hers, could they? She didn’t own twenty individual chap sticks. Did she? They were her brand, she recognized half in her favorite flavor and-

Finally, the shame returned. Oh god those were hers. She had done that. Her mother had outed her and there was no hiding from it. She bit her lower lip.

“It’s not on par with other compulsions, but honey… something has to change.”

She wanted to agree, but that would require moving her lips. They felt so sensitive, as though the particles in the air had a weighty mass.

“Let’s sit down. We’ll figure this out.”

Finally, she let out a breath. It wasn’t hurting anyone. It wasn’t hurting her. That is what she wanted to say.

The embarrassment clenching up in her stomach, the guilt, said otherwise.

She could only hope her mother was right.