Blemish

Location

We know what they all want.

The movie makers and picture takers,

The volatile societal model,

Which we ourselves put up on a pedestal.

A false god constructed from plastic surgery,

And hair extensions.

A completely irrational denomination,

That worships unmarred skin.

Perfect, smooth like porcelain,

Expecting us to be identical Marilyns,

With painted red smiles,

Symmetrical harlequins,

Oblivious to their authentic origins.

Distracted by the poison in the gin,

Then throwing it up just to be thin.

Abandoning my kin,

For the person in the mirror,

Who says they’re my friend,

But seems to hate me even more,

Than I can hate myself.

Screaming the detestable, distasteful, degrading insults,

That follow me around,

Six feet underground.

And I know that we all have skeletons,

And instead of fighting them,

We’re given some medicine,

That’ll control our estrogen,

Make us more feminine,

So we can get a gentlemen.

And then what are we?

Just another specimen?

Another feature on the screen,

Smiling through the scream,

Because of the fish hooks pulling at the corners of my mouth,

Puppeteered by my own masqueraded conscience,

Reminding me if I mess up, I’m not enough.

And I know I’m just the continuation of a gene,

But I will not get down on my knees and glean,

For the compliments of those who are incompetent.

I will not allow them to supplement my confidence,

Or torment my common sense,

With the notion,

That my skin is just an ornament.

Others may buff their complexion,

Refine their reflection,

Lay in a tub with cucumbers over their eyes,

Drowning their ambition in the lies.

But the water grows cold,

In this slippery structure,

The bubbles slowly rupture,

Diffusing the scent of chocolate chamomile.

Contemplating, they suffer.

They fester in denial.

In my chest acid bile.

When did beauty become so vile?

When did we begin to screw people over,

To win the favor,

Of people who would excuse their behavior?

Who dismiss it as old news,

When the victims blacken and bruise.

Well, I refuse.

I will not become another statistic,

Murdered by expectations unrealistic,

Which was driven by the desire of things materialistic,

And through the journey became so uncharacteristic,

That cut and severed them into identical,

Cookie cutter molds that fit perfectly,

Into the coffins they were destined for.

Aspirations no more,

So many liked the décor.

But I will not entertain the notion of what’s idealistic.

I will not indulge what has become so grossly cystic.

I will not allow my children to believe,

That to be flawless, they must be unblemished,

That their skin, when marred, must be refinished.

My arms and legs are defiled with imperfection,

But my complexion needs no correction.

The scars that I myself belittled my body with,

Recovered in a tone distinguishable from the original.

And though sometimes they stand out to me,

Stark red and white against a pale peach background,

I don’t hide them.

I don’t deny the fact that I’ve screwed up.

I don’t disguise the fact that I’m messed up.

And while I don’t parade my scars,

Like glimmering medals, glinting on my chest,

I proudly portray my battle wounds as proof,

That I waged war against myself

                                And I won.

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