Skin Again

At this point my "bad" skin--my acne--is as much a testament to my subtle self-destruction as it is to my oily, inflamed genetic code. Ah, adolescence.

I pick at it. I'm a crazy girl and I dot my face with raw-meat red. I am a corpse in progress, but then again I suppose we all are.

"Dermatillomania" is a relevant word. The manias are like phobias: irrational and passionate. Manias also carry obsession and action. I can't stop touching my cheeks, my forehead, leaning in close to the mirror to see the grime in my pores. (I knew I really was a dirty girl!) I am literally thinking, as I claw myself, as I go in with a safety pin, "I would have nice skin if I didn't do this."

I'm not saying I have derma--I don't. My behavior is not that extreme. I'm just a particularly impotent suicide. Don't mind me.