Chapstick

I am seven years old. My lips are cracking. My father grabs my face and smears a foul smelling stick across my mouth. His grip hurts my jaw and my lips tingle from the pink atrocity that violated my face. I am seventeen. My lips are cracking. I find myself in the lip therapy section of a grocery store. I see that terrible teal tube hanging from a rack for 99¢. I can feel the weight of his hands and a tingling sensation finds itself on my lips. I couldn't tell you why I bought it. It's the only chapstick I use now.