As long as I can remember,
the fear of being shallow has been the stick
and the hope of clear skin,
driving this donkey forward,
into it’s adoloscent years.
And a part of me hates how easily
manipulated I was
by the lure of wisdom
and the threat of a pimply face.
Maybe I’ve consigned myself to
ankle-deep ponds by worrying about
something as frivolous as skin,
And maybe I’ve ensured that it
will remain pimply forever,
by worrying about anything
so deeply at all.
Or is it the other way around?
But it doesn’t matter.
This is a poem about zealous zits
and how I was one of those girls
fueled the beauty industry.
I put mud packs on my face,
Never mind the fact
that mud should never be put on the face-
I felt the burn of lemon juice on my skin,
because apparently it could burn
the pimples right off.
I went to the dermatologist
and he told me
that the blocked pores around my face
could be because of dandruff.
Um…Doctor I don’t have dandruff?
But I bought the fucking shampoo anyways.
It wasn’t stress.
I let go of all my burdens and pressures
until I was so airy and light,
I was surprised when I looked down
to see that my feet
still touched the ground.
I have these dark brown spots,
the scars of pimples dead and gone.
And if I squint long enough,
lie loud enough to the mirror,
I can convince myself
that they look a little bit like
But I have that skin.
kind of skin.
I waited for that ambiguous, intangible date.
Still am, in fact.
Just like I’m waiting for the day
I’ll wake up wise and all-knowing.
Deeper than the kiddie-pool.
An ocean where people
older than five
can wade in.
I can read Proust and Rousseau and Thoreou.
Like a good little citizen,
I can quote them to death.
But it still doesn’t change the fact that I never knew
them or that
we’ve never fucking met.
And I’m still a teenager
So I’m still hoping.
Zitty face turned towards the rising sun,
that there’s some truth to the phrase:
Clear waters run deep.