let me tell you something, i like the scars on my face. i do. i suffered with extreme, adult on-set acne my sophomore year in college. i cried every day, or about every day. i wasn't vain, it was just so bad. mostly, too, the big bulbous pimples would ache, some of them were purple and broke like glass when they popped. it was awful. my dermatologist and i tried everything. finally, i was put on acutane. it took a while, but it helped. but honestly, i cried every day. but now, i don't cry everyday. i do have scars on my face every single moment of my life, reminding me that, yes, in fact, I was a victim of acne.
i actually hate the scars on my face. I know about 6 sentences up i said i liked them. but i don't really. i suppose i like what they aren't.
skin is weird.
everything about it. it's size and weight and shape and the varying cells and the ailments and the healing factor and the pores and sweat glands and hair. just so weird. it's teeming with life.this beautiful protective casing. i love it. i love that i came from the dirt.
and that my husband, sitting next to me, came from dirt. and together, we're weirdly functioning carbon piles full of ancient atoms. walking and communicating with oddly sounding utterances, and being. just existing. going and doing.
No comments:
Post a Comment