Koshehage

My feet touch cool tile as I step into the bathroom, aligning myself before the mirror. I grasp the pencil next to the sink and hesitate to move it more than this, but there's a push that forces it to my face. My skin, like a fresh sheet of paper, is purely blank, if slightly wrinkled. The finely sharpened tip of the pencil seems to push itself against the surface of my skin, etching a mark and blossoming with colour around the tip. It burns with white hot intensity at the point of the pencil, as if it were on fire. My hand is drawn slowly around the forming contour of my mouth, much to my internal protest, in a slight smile. The temptation a