Potted under my skin the smooth surface bubbles roots parasitic to my spared youth
pointing white, red and black it's waxy flag of sticky odor on the peachy foam of cheeks
my plate of food filled up but only to swell
with plump plumps of rashes and pinches
that leak scars embarrassing to mirror outside of the makeup coat of aesthetic cosmos.
Swaying below my neck and across my waving chest sweat intoxicates the pores bloated
and agitates the very foundation of balance levelling up acids like bitter session has
arrived to bloom it's way out of my shaky
scale to a festive coronation of the pimple kingdom for the hard work grease built
across my blockade of dead skin and shame computes my confidence counterclockwise.
Stirring treatment after potion the threat has colonised my shoulder blades and back scraping at the
tissue friction with each clothing material as if to light a forest agleam and off the map of health for sun to never
tan proudly the begging cells for a smooth
even exterior thus disgust pledges to mask eternally such grotesque outburst
of rebellion to beauty culture,
the acne domain has won the war.
Am I ugly for desiring the same glances of attraction just like the clean skin tones of luckier
growing peers or because of how colourfully alarming is to look like a skinned clown with permanent cracks and dipps
for eyes to get sunken in, glaring at the
pathetic attempt of failed self- preservation?
Looking glass of memory, I never was pretty nor disturbing, I was just me, blending in with what mouths
would jab my way with no judgement as to what was true or false regarding my identity and now I see that
the holes on my heart are heavier then the
ones in my face yet I look at a loving child pained to be accepted and regarded for
the struggle scars leave within it's consciousness and I cry tears of joy for how strong I am to
break realising that beauty is the empathic
way I look at myself and continue walking behind broken mirrors...