Focus On the Texture

It’s a topographical nightmare. The terrain rises and slopes over small mountain ranges I wish everyday were freckles. The landforms, shifting and rising with every glance in the mirror, they’re rough from years of scrubbing and cleansing and picking and medication more destructive than effective. The landscape is mottled, it’s patchwork-- Lakes of oil next to avalanches of dead skin that flake to the floor. I leave a trail behind me. It’s ugly. And I knew that from a young age. Every “have you ever thought about popping them?” whispered in English class every “what’s on your face?” from my fellow seven-year-olds every “let’s go back to the doctor” softly demanded by my mother every “try another medication she still looks bad” that my grandmother knew I could hear. They made sure I understood how repulsive I was. They didn’t want me to forget. Don’t get a big head. Then we’d have to see even more of you. Stop thinking that Pretty is what you’re designed to be.