The rough feeling of your chapped lips shakes you to your core, constantly cracking and bleeding. The redness and chafing of chapped lips. the feeling of having those terrible lips that are chapped!
My lips are chapped. It is a reaccurring problem with me, the chapped lips. Everything I try to do amounts to nothing when trying to cure my problem. So, I am stuck with my chapped lips.
I lick my lips as I look at her, not in the way one looks at a cake or confectionary, but in uncomfortable empathy. The walls of my stomach split as I see the corrugated crevices in her undulating lips wax and wane with every vile word, spittle setting on her chapped lips, crevices forming in my own brow as my face wrinkles in disgust.
Die dürre Erde zeigte tiefe Risse. Hier sollte einmal ein See gewesen sein? Schwer vorstellbar, wäre die Fläche nicht von Bojen und verwelktem Seegras gespickt.
His lips were chapped peeling skin melting off of his body. No one was prepared for the blast only a white hot flash preceding a lifetime of agony. Nothing will ever be the same.
I didn’t go out. How could I? Would you? I looked ugly. I was ugly! I didn’t go to school. I didn’t want my friends to stuffer looking at my face. My lips were find the next day though. Which was great.
Sighing softly, the woman leaned against the crook of the door as she gazed upon the man she loved. He was just sitting there. Immobile. Licking his parched lips.
He hadn’t been the same since the winter, nor the death of his mother.
She took another swig from the bottle, and smiled.
my lips this morning as i reached for the green plastic bin. the burn is strange and hard. normal now. burts bees, clorox. tampa in ybor. those old cars are comforting. the roads i’d travel to get high before work. yeah, chapped lips. what normal pain. first world discomfort and remedies.
I’ve never had the urge that others seem to surrender so willingly to. That cheap substance has never tempted me but on cold days and the desire is easily satisfied after minutes of use.
my lips are always chapped. not sure why that is. from picking and biting the little pieces of my lips, it’s like dinner on the run. this sounds disgusting, time to change. chapped reminds me of chaps on robert redford in the crap horse whisperer or ralph lauren.
It was snowing–blizzarding, actually. That’s what we call it up here. The wind was blowing so hard, the falling snow was like a million sharp daggers slicing at our skin. And our lips–our poor lips. We were surrounded by so much white water, but we couldn’t drink it without a fire to thaw it–and us–out. By then, you could smack them together, but there would be no smack, only a rough kind of rubbing. Flakes of skin started peeling and drifting off into the snow. I couldn’t tell you if my cheeks were getting cut by swirling snowflakes, or the shards of Dan’s disintegrating lips.
The elements had sucked the flesh from our lips, leaving only brittle carcasses behind. We didn’t speak, for fear of creating unhealing crevasses there that might rip our faces from chin to nose. What strange animals we would become, then?
His skinned chapped in the wind as it stung his face. The snow, a blinding blanket, lay in heavy drifts upon the ground. He bent his head against the cruel weather and willed himself onwards towards the shack and refuge. I’ll be safe there for now, he thought. But how long before they come?
The feeling of your chapped lips
brushing through the sides of my cheeks
makes me wonder the last time
you have been nurtured by someone
who loves you as deeply as I do.
Her lips were dry and chapped. There was no point licking them with her sandpaper tongue. she hadn’t hat water for days and she was sure she didn’t have long to live. The sky was frighteningly vivid, in a colour she would have once admired. Not today. Today the hot sun and the wretched desert would kill her.
chapped lips are always the worst. no matter how many times you lick them… it only eases the pain for a few seconds. the feeling of ease is only temporary.
a lot of things are temporarily eased, but in the end the action only results in…
Dainty lips, chapped with lies and the insomniatic mind – I wonder how it would taste with mine, when our breaths mingle and there’s only the ghost of a distance between us. This gnawing curiosity is eating me, like a cancerous drug.
The chapped lips were rough against his smooth ones. He sucked gently at them, wanting to sooth them. He pulled back and glanced up into those emerald green eyes, down to the other’s nose and then at those lips, rough with nervous habits and worn with spoken words. He shuddered softly and kissed them again, wrapping arms tight around his lover.
It had been a cold long day out in the mountains, and when Id returned home, I realized my lips were very chapped. It was time to search for my chap-stick, and hopefully they’d heal soon enough.
She bit her chapped lips and looked around the cafe. She was waiting for her bestfriend who just came back to the country after four years. She didn’t know what else to do so she took out a book. Reading always comforted her. It makes her feel safe and relaxed.
After a few minutes later, a tall man approached her and said, “Murakami.” and added, “Nice choice. I’ve always admired his works.” She looked up to the man and said with a smile, “Of course you do. You’ve always admired him since we were little. And it was you that got me reading his works.”
He smiled and sat down together with her. The two childhood bestfriends finally reunited.
As she lay there dying, I looked down at her lips. Oh, those beautiful lips once held so much life. So much vivacious energy. They were truly the centerpiece of her entire face. And yet, as she lay there under the collapsed bridge, I saw the life leave them, leaving naught but a hollow shell of their former beauty.
my lips in winter. bare branches outside shaking window panes as the air turns frosty and the nights get longer and all I can think is “why am I not with you?”
My lips were chapped as I stood on the edge of the curb, waiting. The wind chilled my fingers, lips, and the tip of my nose. I stood on that curb, endlessly waiting, until my fingers turned to popsicles, my lips cracked and bled, and the tip of my nose felt the teardrops turn to ice.
Her chapped lips burn. She was dehydrated to the point where she had to deny the next hit. Patiently and highly awaiting her lover to return with the graciousness that will ignite her system which we call water.
My hands are chapped by the wind, and my lips are chapped by the sand blowing against my face. No matter how hard we’d tried to cover up, we hadn’t expected this. Nathaniel and Walker were supposed to be the experts, they were the ones who had crossed the desert before, but even they couldn’t have expected this. Things had gone from bad to worse in the time we had spent underground together. And now the storm was bigger blowing hard, chapping everything.
My lips chapped and bleeding against the driving wind. Biting and taring at my clothing as I force my self to keep walking against it. No longer going where I was lead, but blazing my own trails.
His lips touched mine, so soft and simple. They were cracked and chapped, but that didn’t matter. He was here and he was all mine. I smiled blissfully into the kiss and grabbed the back of his head, pulling him impossibly closer to me and deepening the kiss. Had I ever loved someone this much?
No. No, I hadn’t.
John gripped at his knees anxiously as the two rode in the back seat of the taxi. Sherlock still hadn’t told him where they were going, and the ride was getting progressively bumpier as they headed to the very outskirts of the city and the roads became rough from poor upkeep. John wasn’t sure whether they were on a case, and if they were, why Sherlock would tell him nothing about it.
Finally, the cab stopped just past the edge of the city limits, at what appeared to be the end of a very long gravel driveway. Sherlock paid him heartily and arranged for a pickup appointment in three hours’ time. They climbed out onto the road and headed down the driveway, and John noticed for the first time that Sherlock had replaced his usual Oxfords with tall, thick-leathered boots which ran over his trouser legs to the height of his knees. For that matter, now that John was paying attention, he noticed that Sherlock’s trousers were different as well. A stretchier material hugged his thighs and went seamlessly between his legs. By the time they approached the sign for Saturnalia Stables, John had just made the connection. At his hum of recognition, Sherlock smiled down at him.
“You mentioned you wanted to try riding, yes? I thought this weekend would be a perfect opportunity.” John nodded in agreement, as the weather couldn’t have been any nicer. Only a single cloud marred the perfect blue expanse above their heads, a rare sight indeed. The winds were firm, but not viciously so, and Sherlock’s coat-tails and curls ruffled amicably along with each gust. The tails of the horses who chose that moment to gallop out from behind the main arena did as well, excluding those which were still in loose braids.
John grinned in excitement as Sherlock made arrangements with the stable hands. Soon John was being fitted for rental gear, and Sherlock’s own personal gear was brought out of storage. John halfheartedly wondered if he secretly had his own horse hidden away as well.
“I haven’t been here in months,” Sherlock rambled off to John as they were led through the stables full of horses brought in for a meal. “I stopped coming as often after secondary school, and when my childhood horse passed, Mummy didn’t bother getting me another one. I’m sure Mycroft still has one of his own, though.”
They passed an immaculate door where a tall, muscular chestnut thoroughbred had her face buried in a bag of alfalfa. “Borealis,” read her name plaque.
“Ah yes, that’ll be the one,” Sherlock sneered. He gestured to their guide, who had a look at the membership card which Sherlock had filched off his brother the previous weekend, and went in with the royal blue halter hanging by the door. He emerged with Mycroft’s horse by the lead, and Sherlock took her out into the arena. “You go pick one out, and meet me in there,” he called back over his shoulder.
John found himself alone with the guide and a good twenty horses to choose from. He did a quick scan and made his way to the shortest one he could find, a blue roan quarter horse/tennessee walker mix. “Pepper,” he read off the sign on the door. The guide led Pepper out for him, and John was pleased to see that the withers only just reached to nose-level. The better to fall from, he reasoned.
Next, the doctor met Sherlock in the small enclosure of a hallway which led to the arena. The two horses were tied to the walls by their halters, while Sherlock tacked up his borrowed horse and their guide did the same for John. The doctor took his last chance to have a seat on a solid chair and stretch any last trouble out of his tricky leg. He watched with fascination as Sherlock bent to clean Borealis’ hooves, his leather-chapped arse raised in the air as he flicked a small pebble out from next to the frog. Soon both horses were fitted with a saddle blanket, saddle, and bridle, if John was remembering all this correctly as Sherlock nostalgically volunteered the information to him from somewhere behind the poll.
The two equines were led into the arena, and Sherlock made an impossibly long stretch with his left hamstring from the ground to the stirrup. John made a mental note of his flexibility for later, and the stouter doctor was given a step stool. With a wary test at the stirrup, he flung himself over the saddle and immediately wished he’d never mentioned this in the first place at all.
Just go just go just go – you’re already late! Your lips are still dry with the arid distaste of morning and the unpleasant feeling of consciousness, but you’re just going to have to deal with it until lunch.
Nanno clapped her hands, even though we wished she didn’t. They were chapped and raw, and as I watched, I sew more cracks appeared. Why was she putting herself through pain?
Then I understood. It wasn’t pain. It was joy, watching her great-grandaughter, my Natalia, perform her act for the talent show in Nanno’s native language- Italian.
what the hell is chapped, he said? Maybe it denotes a cultural reference to a guy called chap? Maybe an attack or an assault; an insult. Do you know Mark Chapman? Is he the guy who killed some rockstar? I’m not positively sure
The winter and my lips arent the best of friends
the wind is always making my lips
dryed up and chapped
But now Chapstick is my lips bestfriend
Chapstick is fantastic
it makes my lips feel elastic
the wind was blowing to much yesterday so my lips are now chapped
chapped cracked. dry. elephantine.
I miss your lips and skin.
But I told you about the coconut oil.
Why didn’t you listen?
We could have fixed it.
The pain of the chapped lips
The rough feeling of your chapped lips shakes you to your core, constantly cracking and bleeding. The redness and chafing of chapped lips. the feeling of having those terrible lips that are chapped!
dusty like a cowboy is dusty,
the same kind of dry heave,
takes a licking:
no avail.
My lips are chapped. It is a reaccurring problem with me, the chapped lips. Everything I try to do amounts to nothing when trying to cure my problem. So, I am stuck with my chapped lips.
I lick my lips as I look at her, not in the way one looks at a cake or confectionary, but in uncomfortable empathy. The walls of my stomach split as I see the corrugated crevices in her undulating lips wax and wane with every vile word, spittle setting on her chapped lips, crevices forming in my own brow as my face wrinkles in disgust.
chapped makes me think of chapped lip. it hurts and you dont like it. it makes me miserable.
Die dürre Erde zeigte tiefe Risse. Hier sollte einmal ein See gewesen sein? Schwer vorstellbar, wäre die Fläche nicht von Bojen und verwelktem Seegras gespickt.
His lips were chapped peeling skin melting off of his body. No one was prepared for the blast only a white hot flash preceding a lifetime of agony. Nothing will ever be the same.
I didn’t go out. How could I? Would you? I looked ugly. I was ugly! I didn’t go to school. I didn’t want my friends to stuffer looking at my face. My lips were find the next day though. Which was great.
Sighing softly, the woman leaned against the crook of the door as she gazed upon the man she loved. He was just sitting there. Immobile. Licking his parched lips.
He hadn’t been the same since the winter, nor the death of his mother.
She took another swig from the bottle, and smiled.
My lips
–chapped after being deprived
of your lips–
ache for another burning
sensation that your
dancing tongue performs upon.
my lips this morning as i reached for the green plastic bin. the burn is strange and hard. normal now. burts bees, clorox. tampa in ybor. those old cars are comforting. the roads i’d travel to get high before work. yeah, chapped lips. what normal pain. first world discomfort and remedies.
i don’t know the word’s meaning.
I’ve never had the urge that others seem to surrender so willingly to. That cheap substance has never tempted me but on cold days and the desire is easily satisfied after minutes of use.
my lips are always chapped. not sure why that is. from picking and biting the little pieces of my lips, it’s like dinner on the run. this sounds disgusting, time to change. chapped reminds me of chaps on robert redford in the crap horse whisperer or ralph lauren.
It was snowing–blizzarding, actually. That’s what we call it up here. The wind was blowing so hard, the falling snow was like a million sharp daggers slicing at our skin. And our lips–our poor lips. We were surrounded by so much white water, but we couldn’t drink it without a fire to thaw it–and us–out. By then, you could smack them together, but there would be no smack, only a rough kind of rubbing. Flakes of skin started peeling and drifting off into the snow. I couldn’t tell you if my cheeks were getting cut by swirling snowflakes, or the shards of Dan’s disintegrating lips.
The elements had sucked the flesh from our lips, leaving only brittle carcasses behind. We didn’t speak, for fear of creating unhealing crevasses there that might rip our faces from chin to nose. What strange animals we would become, then?
His skinned chapped in the wind as it stung his face. The snow, a blinding blanket, lay in heavy drifts upon the ground. He bent his head against the cruel weather and willed himself onwards towards the shack and refuge. I’ll be safe there for now, he thought. But how long before they come?
The feeling of your chapped lips
brushing through the sides of my cheeks
makes me wonder the last time
you have been nurtured by someone
who loves you as deeply as I do.
Let me quench that thirst on your lips.
Her lips were dry and chapped. There was no point licking them with her sandpaper tongue. she hadn’t hat water for days and she was sure she didn’t have long to live. The sky was frighteningly vivid, in a colour she would have once admired. Not today. Today the hot sun and the wretched desert would kill her.
chapped lips are always the worst. no matter how many times you lick them… it only eases the pain for a few seconds. the feeling of ease is only temporary.
a lot of things are temporarily eased, but in the end the action only results in…
more pain.
Dainty lips, chapped with lies and the insomniatic mind – I wonder how it would taste with mine, when our breaths mingle and there’s only the ghost of a distance between us. This gnawing curiosity is eating me, like a cancerous drug.
Your a sweet little thing. Do you know that?
She ran her tongue over her lips, the feel of them rough and cracked beneath it weirdly comforting.
The chapped lips were rough against his smooth ones. He sucked gently at them, wanting to sooth them. He pulled back and glanced up into those emerald green eyes, down to the other’s nose and then at those lips, rough with nervous habits and worn with spoken words. He shuddered softly and kissed them again, wrapping arms tight around his lover.
It had been a cold long day out in the mountains, and when Id returned home, I realized my lips were very chapped. It was time to search for my chap-stick, and hopefully they’d heal soon enough.
She bit her chapped lips and looked around the cafe. She was waiting for her bestfriend who just came back to the country after four years. She didn’t know what else to do so she took out a book. Reading always comforted her. It makes her feel safe and relaxed.
After a few minutes later, a tall man approached her and said, “Murakami.” and added, “Nice choice. I’ve always admired his works.” She looked up to the man and said with a smile, “Of course you do. You’ve always admired him since we were little. And it was you that got me reading his works.”
He smiled and sat down together with her. The two childhood bestfriends finally reunited.
As she lay there dying, I looked down at her lips. Oh, those beautiful lips once held so much life. So much vivacious energy. They were truly the centerpiece of her entire face. And yet, as she lay there under the collapsed bridge, I saw the life leave them, leaving naught but a hollow shell of their former beauty.
my lips in winter. bare branches outside shaking window panes as the air turns frosty and the nights get longer and all I can think is “why am I not with you?”
My lips were chapped as I stood on the edge of the curb, waiting. The wind chilled my fingers, lips, and the tip of my nose. I stood on that curb, endlessly waiting, until my fingers turned to popsicles, my lips cracked and bled, and the tip of my nose felt the teardrops turn to ice.
Her chapped lips burn. She was dehydrated to the point where she had to deny the next hit. Patiently and highly awaiting her lover to return with the graciousness that will ignite her system which we call water.
My hands are chapped by the wind, and my lips are chapped by the sand blowing against my face. No matter how hard we’d tried to cover up, we hadn’t expected this. Nathaniel and Walker were supposed to be the experts, they were the ones who had crossed the desert before, but even they couldn’t have expected this. Things had gone from bad to worse in the time we had spent underground together. And now the storm was bigger blowing hard, chapping everything.
My lips chapped and bleeding against the driving wind. Biting and taring at my clothing as I force my self to keep walking against it. No longer going where I was lead, but blazing my own trails.
His lips touched mine, so soft and simple. They were cracked and chapped, but that didn’t matter. He was here and he was all mine. I smiled blissfully into the kiss and grabbed the back of his head, pulling him impossibly closer to me and deepening the kiss. Had I ever loved someone this much?
No. No, I hadn’t.
John gripped at his knees anxiously as the two rode in the back seat of the taxi. Sherlock still hadn’t told him where they were going, and the ride was getting progressively bumpier as they headed to the very outskirts of the city and the roads became rough from poor upkeep. John wasn’t sure whether they were on a case, and if they were, why Sherlock would tell him nothing about it.
Finally, the cab stopped just past the edge of the city limits, at what appeared to be the end of a very long gravel driveway. Sherlock paid him heartily and arranged for a pickup appointment in three hours’ time. They climbed out onto the road and headed down the driveway, and John noticed for the first time that Sherlock had replaced his usual Oxfords with tall, thick-leathered boots which ran over his trouser legs to the height of his knees. For that matter, now that John was paying attention, he noticed that Sherlock’s trousers were different as well. A stretchier material hugged his thighs and went seamlessly between his legs. By the time they approached the sign for Saturnalia Stables, John had just made the connection. At his hum of recognition, Sherlock smiled down at him.
“You mentioned you wanted to try riding, yes? I thought this weekend would be a perfect opportunity.” John nodded in agreement, as the weather couldn’t have been any nicer. Only a single cloud marred the perfect blue expanse above their heads, a rare sight indeed. The winds were firm, but not viciously so, and Sherlock’s coat-tails and curls ruffled amicably along with each gust. The tails of the horses who chose that moment to gallop out from behind the main arena did as well, excluding those which were still in loose braids.
John grinned in excitement as Sherlock made arrangements with the stable hands. Soon John was being fitted for rental gear, and Sherlock’s own personal gear was brought out of storage. John halfheartedly wondered if he secretly had his own horse hidden away as well.
“I haven’t been here in months,” Sherlock rambled off to John as they were led through the stables full of horses brought in for a meal. “I stopped coming as often after secondary school, and when my childhood horse passed, Mummy didn’t bother getting me another one. I’m sure Mycroft still has one of his own, though.”
They passed an immaculate door where a tall, muscular chestnut thoroughbred had her face buried in a bag of alfalfa. “Borealis,” read her name plaque.
“Ah yes, that’ll be the one,” Sherlock sneered. He gestured to their guide, who had a look at the membership card which Sherlock had filched off his brother the previous weekend, and went in with the royal blue halter hanging by the door. He emerged with Mycroft’s horse by the lead, and Sherlock took her out into the arena. “You go pick one out, and meet me in there,” he called back over his shoulder.
John found himself alone with the guide and a good twenty horses to choose from. He did a quick scan and made his way to the shortest one he could find, a blue roan quarter horse/tennessee walker mix. “Pepper,” he read off the sign on the door. The guide led Pepper out for him, and John was pleased to see that the withers only just reached to nose-level. The better to fall from, he reasoned.
Next, the doctor met Sherlock in the small enclosure of a hallway which led to the arena. The two horses were tied to the walls by their halters, while Sherlock tacked up his borrowed horse and their guide did the same for John. The doctor took his last chance to have a seat on a solid chair and stretch any last trouble out of his tricky leg. He watched with fascination as Sherlock bent to clean Borealis’ hooves, his leather-chapped arse raised in the air as he flicked a small pebble out from next to the frog. Soon both horses were fitted with a saddle blanket, saddle, and bridle, if John was remembering all this correctly as Sherlock nostalgically volunteered the information to him from somewhere behind the poll.
The two equines were led into the arena, and Sherlock made an impossibly long stretch with his left hamstring from the ground to the stirrup. John made a mental note of his flexibility for later, and the stouter doctor was given a step stool. With a wary test at the stirrup, he flung himself over the saddle and immediately wished he’d never mentioned this in the first place at all.
Lips ugly sore painful cracked terrible dreadful nasty gross white sting burn hurt chapstick lipgloss lipstick kissing
lips
Just go just go just go – you’re already late! Your lips are still dry with the arid distaste of morning and the unpleasant feeling of consciousness, but you’re just going to have to deal with it until lunch.
Nanno clapped her hands, even though we wished she didn’t. They were chapped and raw, and as I watched, I sew more cracks appeared. Why was she putting herself through pain?
Then I understood. It wasn’t pain. It was joy, watching her great-grandaughter, my Natalia, perform her act for the talent show in Nanno’s native language- Italian.
what the hell is chapped, he said? Maybe it denotes a cultural reference to a guy called chap? Maybe an attack or an assault; an insult. Do you know Mark Chapman? Is he the guy who killed some rockstar? I’m not positively sure