wo months ago, a sore formed in the corner of my lips. A trifle of a scab - nothing, really, except for its annoying location. Right smack at the seam.
(No. It was not herpes.)
But the location meant that opening my mouth became a literal pain. Yawns hurt. Overstuffed sandwiches were out of the question. I ignored it for a while. It was surely a sign of stress, which - if not glamorous - was at least evidence that my freelance career was taking off. "This sucker?" I could say, rubbing my finger over the spot. "Three deadlines in a week."
All I needed was some sleep and hot tea. But a week and several Tazo bags later, the sore was even bigger.
My mother grew concerned. "Are you wearing too much lipstick?"
No.
"Too many acidic foods?"
No.
"Well, do you think it's herpes?"
Maaaaaaaaahmm.
She sent me home with an herbal lip balm and instructions to immerse myself in Hydrogen Peroxide. But a week later, another sore showed up - on the opposite side.
"This is ridiculous," I would say, peering into the mirror, scratching at the flaky skin.
"Don't pick at it," my boyfriend would say. "It'll only get worse."
"I know, I know." I'd wait for him to leave and scurry back to the mirror. Ah-ha: Revenge.
Positioned right beneath each corner of my lip, the scabs made it look as though I had a permanent scowl. I was a clown with a sad face, a little girl smeared with mommy's lipstick. When I ran into people at the grocery store, I put my hand to my lips in a professor's gaze, like I was contemplating whatever they said. At home, I medicated. I over-moisturized. I iodined. (Iodined? Well, whatever.) But the more I poked and balmed, the worse it got. My lips became crusty and cracked. One morning, looking in the mirror, I burst into tears.
"It's not fair," I said.
"Have you been picking at it?" my boyfriend asked.
"No!" I said emphatically. "Hardly at all."
He raised one eyebrow. Oh, he knew.

The truth is, as the scabs on my lips became more grotesque, I became obsessed with picking them. Every day - every moment, at times - was a struggle to keep my hands from wandering to my lips. As I drove in traffic, mindlessly listening to the radio, I found myself fondling the corners of my mouth. Oops! I accidentally ripped this scab off. Whoops! I'm bleeding down my face. The sleeve of my blue hoodie - the one I wear on cool fall days - became blotchy with the rust of multiple blood stains.
Like any compulsive, I knew that my behavior was wrong. But the obsession was so unbearable that I felt, invariably, justified in that moment. Maybe you've felt that kind of overpowering weakness -to bite your nails, perhaps, or squeeze a pimple. To call someone you shouldn't, to feel the smoke sting your lungs again.
When I was a kid, I knew a little girl who couldn't stop pulling out her own hair. How weird is that? She was seven or eight, with a bright and curly red mop, but she had this massive, shiny bald spot right in the front. Her parents actually put a mild poison on her hair to try to get her to stop, but she just got sicker, because she also sucked on her own fingers, too. I haven't thought about that poor little girl in ages, but now I wonder what's become of her. Can you overcome those childhood urges, or do you just sublimate? Ever tried to get a kid to stop sucking her thumb? Ever tried to get your girlfriend to stop picking at herself?
"Have you been picking at those scabs?" my boyfriend asks whenever I come home, my lips clotted with brown.
"No," I say, hiding my sleeves.
"Why are you bleeding?"
"I tripped."
"You did?"
"I tripped and fell and accidentally pulled the scab off."
It's terrible. I know, I know.
Even as I'm writing this, I'm having trouble not picking at the scab. It's very ripe for picking, you know. I could just rip it off like a Band-Aid. Tomorrow it would be back to taunt me, but the fleeting feeling - that sweet satisfaction - would be such, such heaven.
But I'm not going to pick at it. Seriously, I'm done with this. The healing begins now. Or, you know, after I go to the bathroom mirror one last time. I'll just be one sec.