If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
title from Sylvia Plath’s poem Poppies In July
The storm wizard’s mouth has a small indent from a pen or pencil they chewed on while they were solving a problem. They taste metal on their tongue and their teeth feel like they’re about to vibrate out of their mouth from ambient electricity in their body. They crunch chips too loud, probably in class, and like to have lollipops only because of the dramatic energy of the stick sticking out of their mouth while they smirk and lean over into another person’s conversation, solving their problems in a sentence or two like it’s nothing. They paint their lips dark purples and reds and always forget when they do, smearing it eventually.
The ice wizard’s mouth is a thin grimacing line when they watch others mess up, hesitant to interfere and get involved. Their lips shine with a sheen of flavorless lip balm, or their lips are ragged with chapping and them picking at it. The soft burn of peppermint in their mouth lingers, they keep mints on them in a metal tin that rattles. When they exhale, if it’s cold enough there will be a pale blue-white cloud of water vapor, of condensation that can’t help but sparkle with magic and emanate a faint light.
The fire wizard’s mouth is burned from trying hot drinks too quickly. They paint their lips bright reds and oranges and golds. They don’t bite their tongue often enough and social mistakes fall from that mouth. They yell, snarl, and bite with that mouth like it is a deranged rabid dog on a fraying, charred leash, and they let it happen because they’re better at burning things than anything else, and awful at changing.
The death wizard’s mouth is painted black with lipstick of any quality. Eulogies drawl from those lips, names of those deceased easier to say than those still among the living. They can taste something awful in the back of their throat sometimes, reminiscent of the scent of freshly turned dirt and fake floral perfumes. Their teeth are just another imprint, another way to identify a body if all else fails. They cannot help but whisper goodbyes and greet with the relief of seeing someone alive that shouldn’t be.
The myth wizard’s mouth has a bit of ink just at the corner, because they fiddle with quills and cannot help but make a mistake. Plain pinks and soft corals paint their mouth, though the daring go for electric yellow and blue. They enunciate every name in every dead language perfectly. They make puns, and the wide break of a facade when they grin is enough to stop anyone in their tracks. That mouth will rasp prophecies one moment and drop open with reverence over an old text the next, and they will eventually forget both instances anyway, everything lost to time.
The life wizard’s mouth is frowning with concentration as they do their work, shoulders aching from endless burdens. They do their duty and don’t hesitate when it requires mouth to mouth, ready to give a breath of life, remembering to tap into their internal magic to make it work all the better and save a slim few that can be saved with that extra bit of magic. Plain reds are best when they look for lipstick, but they tend to pick ones labeled with flower names just to stay on brand. The color doesn’t really matter when they bark out orders, quick, efficient, and life saving with every social nicety skipped.
The balance wizard’s mouth is dry as they study, forgetting the water at their side all too often. They tug at their bottom lip with their teeth, letting the color pale from it with the pressure only to release it, captivating to anyone who appreciates their aesthetic beauty. They choose nude lipsticks and plain lip balms. They are slow to taste, quiet and appreciative, trying to pick out flavors, find a meaning in almost everything. This won’t stop them from murmuring insults under their breath when annoyed, even though they are merely a bystander most of the time.
The star wizard’s tongue sticks out, immature and childish. They pick any bright color or fancy lipstick that catches their eye, collecting them with an intent of simple ownership over something pretty. They laugh too often and don’t feel like laughing enough for how much they do of it. They have a quick trigger finger on their smile, bringing it up in the presence of others and just as fast to holster it, leaving something vacuous and empty in its place.
The sun wizard’s mouth grins wide, and they shout and grin, they announce themselves. They wear borrowed colors from friends on their lips, smiling and thanking whenever they need to. They bite at their lips when they try to strategize, to think things through so they don’t lose anyone. They blow kisses, kiss a hand, brush their lips across offered knuckles, a smaller, more intimate and real smile showing through.
The moon wizard’s mouth is smudged with food or stray makeup. They give a tired half smile, they huff and groan and move anyway. Their mouth is slow to smile, but when they do its soft and brilliant and captivating, enough to whisper poems about and want to trace with careful fingers. They can shift expression and faces, never sure what constitutes a real show of emotion and who they are, flickering television glares of who they are becoming a blinding ray in the face of their adversary.
The shadow wizard’s mouth is obscured by hands and darkness and the fact that sometimes they bend reality so it just isn’t there. Their lips are left uncovered, unless they find a dark purple, blue, or black that suits their particular tastes. They have teeth, you’re not sure just how sharp. Their mouth is a slash, beam of lights slicing through anything to illuminate their darkness. The rarity of smiles makes every grin a sparkle of hope, it’s created a false desert of happiness, eternally cold, a reminder that as extreme highs happen, the fall is quick to sweep them off their feet.
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