Deadly sins
As winter settles in, the tongue gravitates to upper lip; stretching the meaty middle over the ridge of top front teeth. I bite up and contract the cheeks to draw the little nub inward. After a month of tending to my winter succor, the bottom jaw crackles stiff from all the pulling and sucking.

The blister is almost a birthmark. As a baby at my mother, I took in her milk so hungrily that it burned a blister, and the effect will be life long. It dries and peels, swells and hollows, reddens and whitens with the seasons. A glass of crimson wine will stain the defect’s edges, and an application of lipstick will all but fade but for my little mark. A mark for gluttony and for greed.