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. Makeup: 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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Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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