A single pimple punctuates my chin.
Its solitude is what surprises me.
This blemish is an iceberg, just the tip
of angst and strains and stresses yet unseen.
I measure words so that I don’t reveal
my struggles, worries, annoyances, concerns
but acne is a mind map on my face
It tattles when I’m scared, upset, confused.
Concealer for this pimple — what’s the point?
It does not mar perfection, I know that.
But do I want disclosure on my skin
Of inner tumult otherwise unknown?