Pimple Party

It’s a little golden globule of oil and skin, a translucent globe, tapered like an onion. It rests, hard and sticky, on the tip of my thumbnail. It feels prickly and pleasing to rub between the soft pads of my fingers. Crushed between the flat of two thumbnails, it’s a thin, lumpy pancake of pubescent biology. I lift it off with pinched fingernail tips and frame it against the afternoon window, halo of brightbright light. Grimy.

It came out of the corner of my forehead with a satisfying, wet pinch. It lodged beneath my index fingernail, wedged into fingertip flesh. Yellowish and pearly and oily.

Acne is gross. Popping pimples is disgusting. There’s creamy pus and yellow blood. Ooze the blot and clot the cut, free the grit and smear the wet release. I mean, not that I know from personal experience or anything.

OPINION: Is it wrong or coldhearted to complain about pimples when people are, like, starving?

 

Huh,

Isabella – 6/21/16

remembering Alexei.

 

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