It’s a pimple. It’s all you can think. Sitting there on your forehead like some kind of high-rise queen.
You want to touch it. Pinch it to break open the cover and let the disgusting white mucus drip down, but you can’t. You know you shouldn’t. It’ll just make it worse. Just ignore it, you tell yourself.
But there’s just something inside that whispers, just whispers.
And your hand gravitates towards it.
By the time you realize it, your hand’s just millimeters away, and you jerk back a little too hard and slam into the bathtub.
You shake it off, gain your footing, but the sound of your leg smacking against that tub rings in your ears. And the only thing that’s keeping you from pinching that leg fat is this horrendous pimple.
Aah, yes. The pimple.
It seems like a useless battle, and you reach up and pluck a strand of hair from your messy hair. There’s no pain, and it seems like it’s only the pimple that protests back.
Securing the strand in between your two hands, you glide it over the pimple, hoping to subtly burst it.
It doesn’t work the first time, so you try a second time. A third time. A fourth. Until finally, the white scum breaks out, and your hair grabs it like a thin wire. The shield has failed its job and flops over, depressed. It’s now just a flabby piece of skin who failed its only job.
My eyes wander over to a spot just a little but away on my forehead. It looks like one of the craters on the moon, but it was really just my hand, pressing and pinching till that pimple bursted.
My face is a collage of these attempts. Trying, struggling, failing. Until the craters dot my face for months.
I throw the hair into the trashcan and flop over myself, sad and a failure.