That it bothers me much more than you can imagine. It's kind of been that way since I started having pimples, around 13 years old or that pubescent stage where sudden physical changes leave you dazed and confused and sometimes more than a little sad. Like the fairy godmother appeared but instead of making you beautiful you got whirled into being a self conscious uglier version of yourself.
I would try to say a lot of positive, uplifting things, but today let's just look at the unvarnished truth: let it sink deep into the skin because you gotta recognize it for what it is. That's a part of the process of letting go.
So pimples get me. It's the way they can be so insidious, slithering round when you least expect it, even when you're having a spate of good skin which it definitely smells, trust me; that's why they come to ruin it all.
The way they dot my face like small red volcanoes (the Pacific Ring?) complete with white pus-tops as if a perfect substitute for lava, except this time it is nowhere near as beautiful or breathtaking because it is twisted nature.
The way they make my face produce more oil than before, as if someone asked it to compete with the Arabs on who could make the most profit from oil slick. My glasses hates this.
The way they even take away from me the things that I love.
Good ol' banana milk that tastes like heaven on a blue day, scratching my face whenever I feel like it, those simple days where only a cleanser was needed (what a joke! Now the countertop is crowded with all array of beauty products to make up for what my skin cannot provide-)
The thing about acne is that it is oppressive and depressing because it crowds out the other nice and happy thoughts until only the dark ones remain. So when it comes you run, tail tucked between legs, home.
L / 18 / SG / undetermined
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Your story is what you have, what you will always have. It is something to own.
last updated: 5 september