Acne

AM 

It’s not getting up on the wrong side of the bed that sets a bad tone for the day. It’s waking up, looking in the mirror, and seeing a face— your face— dotted with cherry acne. 

Charlie wants to crawl back in bed, spare the world of seeing her face and spare herself from classmate critics. The moments collected that morning with the mirror were frozen, Charlie staring helplessly at her reflection.

This particular March morning was about damage control. Charlie was at the whim of the one pimple located squarely between her eyebrows, the one (there were multiple others, but this one stood out) that protruded to such height that it not only left a shadow, but it could also be seen from her side profile. The thing was easily the size, and had the same hardness, of a marble. If you looked closely, you could see another pimple growing alongside it, her unibrow section was breeding a mushroom grove. She didn’t know if that made her look more like a warted toad or an oily swamp.

Charlie dabbed around the coned pimple with a thick concealer applicator, all along with the ashamed feeling in her stomach one gets after overeating greasy food. After concealing, she put on glasses whose rim strategically covered a sizable quadrant of the pimple. She reminded herself to avoid direct eye contact with anyone. To avoid conversations, and, if someone happened to talk to her, to look down or look away. This way she wouldn’t be caught with the scarlett pimple on her face. It felt as if being ugly was her own deep mistake. 

PM- Mirror visit 1

Charlie threw all her anxiety on the faults of her face. She was haunted by the presence of swells and drops she couldn’t name, which frustrated her even more.

But the thing on her face was physically there— looking at her as she looked at it—in a position that was exactly eye level. A target, a bullseye, a thing meant to be nailed.

And so, Charlie played the merciless surgeon. She squeezed the massive pimple with bird-beak tweezers that squeezed the life from the pimple’s casing, surfacing squirmy underground worms. Below the puss worms was a stream of blood. When Charlie saw blood reached the surface, she’d press down on the pimple with an acid-soaked Q-tip, as if the pimple was pushbutton and she was powering it off. This left a swollen pit on her face.

From the onset, she knew she’d be worse off trying to eradicate the pimple, in fact, Charlie is a champion for non-violence and self-care. But untended to anger won’t let you sleep. It is only when you finish the violence that you are able to close your eyes.

PM- Mirror visit 2

The thing about mirrors is there is literally, by physical law, no looking past what you see. It’s easy to forget that mirrors are solid objects.

So, when Charlie looks in the mirror that evening, she can’t look past her reflection. Not because she is shallow or caught up in appearance, but because no one can look through solid objects.

So, Charlie, locked by the mirror into seeing her reflection, steps foot into The Cycle.

(Picture The Cycle like this:

The muscles which control seeing and the muscle which controls being seen facing up at eye level like Confederate and Union troops at Shiloh.

Under the pressure of wanting to be something great, neither side backing down, the whole field of vision, shrieks, booms, and wars.

After carnage (from Latin caro, carn- ‘flesh’), the energy is exorcised out of that location.

What is left is exaggerated emptiness that is always speechless. Always lonely. Extinguished and little.

Later on, it will start again.)

In real time:

Charlie is leaned over her sink, clenchly staring at her Taj-Mahal-top pimple. Within— The fury is building. Fuck this ugly piece of shit. You are this ugly stupid fucking shit. That is you, bitch. Ugly. Stupid. Good for nothing, waste.

Charlie is still leaned over the sink, staring. Within— The fury is seething. Stupid fuck. Are you fucking kidding me. Worthless, ugly, shithead. Shitface. Stupid. Fucking DIE.

Charlie pushes away from the sink, melts to the ground, and sits there, knees bent, with her head dug into her crossed arms. Why me.