Poem: Making Mountains Out of Molehills? – 08/07/20

I glare at the
splotches of raw colour
in the mirror:
one, two, three,
four, more.
An adolescent’s
dreaded nightmare;
immense, angry, welt-like, firm.
They’re like curious mountains
which have arisen overnight,
swollen and painful,
because I insist on 
irritating their surface 
though I know 
it’s not right,
they flare, they throb
with each unsuccessful
squeeze I make,
who knew a war’s
been waged against me,
one I’ve unwittingly
been forced to undertake??

How to remove these
painful sites from my face,
clear my complexion
as if by magic?
I feel as though I might
require some form of
divine intervention,
because these mountains,
not molehills,
are certainly not budging.
foundation, concealer,
could work a treat,
but only if these
unsightly visitors sat flat
at 180 degrees.
If they were simple,
mere blemishes,
I could paint them
into obscurity,
however, this
aggressive adult acne
is really
my current reality.
I sit, perplexed,
wondering what to do,
it hurts when I
attempt to drain them,
the thought disgusts and
revolts me, too.
I have an important date
scheduled which I 
need later attend,

but I suspect I’ll be sending
my apologies
if I can’t make
the blemishes heal 
and cleanse,
fastidiously empty my pores,
leave them open once again.
Well, it looks as though
I’ll be staying home,
I’m not vain for 
avoiding company,
the solitude of my home is 
where it's safest,
where I can hide these
mountains raw and glistening.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.  
Image credit: Clip-Art Library

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