My first ever slam poem. I had really bad skin growing up. Like, REALLY bad. I felt helpless because washing didn't help and no one seemed to have any useful advice at the time. I was bullied for it, called names, ostracized. I also struggled with anxiety and depression and skin picking was something that temporarily relieved some of the emotional pain and frustration. Of course, it made things worse, but it took a long time for me to learn that because it seemed like everything made it worse. Acne struggles are so consequential and yet we almost never talk about it. It is tied to so many huge topics that it can seem impossible to talk about, but we have to talk about it. This was my way of starting that conversation.
lyrics
Beauty department to heal your soul
Deep cleanses, microdermabrasions, anti-oxidant facial scrubs with extracts of
Tea tree oil, witch hazel, citrus, chamomile, aloe
And it just gets under my skin
Seal in moisture and dissipate redness
Calm your inflamed nerves
Minimize your pores as you would minimize your fears
And it just gets under my skin
Hide yourself, hide your pain, hide your history under your skin
We see flawless, computer-generated sirens who depict a world of “model citizens”
Where hair is always shiny but never greasy
Where sweat only exist as uniform misting to play against the light
Where thighs extend into eternity yet never touch
And they remind me
Don’t put your hands on your face
Don’t put your hands on your face
But if I don’t put my hands on my face then everyone will see it
And everyone will know
I’m no model
I see my flaws as clearly as Polaris on a dark, country night
I long for skin smooth as cream, hair that billows like smoke and eyes that shine like the moon And every night, after I try to scrub away the disappointment in the mirror
And dab at every last insult with the latest miracle cure
I crawl into bed, pull the blankets up over my head like a cocoon and pray that in the morning I’ll peel away the covers and emerge
Transformed
This never happens
When I wake up I still see red
When I wake up I still see spots
But if beauty is only skin deep then I shouldn’t have to dig too far to reach it And if I tear it all away, pick out every blemish and imperfection
Squeeze out every impure substance and strip it down until I bleed
That blood
Must be the beauty I hear so much about
And it’s in me
It runs warm and smooth, through all my organs and beats within my heart It fills me up and without it I can’t live
And every time I scratch at my flesh
And see that familiar, scarlet stain
I imagine that the blood would pour from my wounds
And flow over my features
Until I am encased in its beauty
I’d let it drain from my veins and my heart would stop pumping but it would seem worth it Because my lifeless body would finally display all that beauty that was inside me
All that beauty I couldn’t see but tried to touch
All that beauty that I so desperately want to be there
Under my skin
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