Pimples and Deep Thinking: A Poem

As long as I can remember,

the fear of being shallow has been the stick

and the hope of clear skin,

the carrot,

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.

because

This is a poem about zealous zits

and how I was one of those girls

who single-handedly

fueled the beauty industry.

 

I put mud packs on my face,

Never mind the fact

that mud should never be put on the face-

Ever.

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

weird freckles.

 

But I have that skin.

The you-know-honey,

its-okay,

you’ll-be-beautiful-when-you-grow-up

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.

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