When my hair is wet, it reminds me of ducks and swans and lakes that I attempted to radius with bare feet.
He was five years young, maybe almost six when he slipped and spluttered and sank.
And it was the strong arm of his brother that yanked him from possibility.
He was thankful that day and I was in awe.
Maybe we did really have love.
Maybe we did really care about each other.
As a child, families are like pimples; mostly they appear without you asking for them.
Sometimes they are formed because you deserve them.
They contain the revolting stuff and the goo that needs squeezing out and cleaning and eventually, they fade away.
Sometimes they leave scars.
I had clear skin when I was younger, though I had a gooey life.
There was lots of gunk within it.
My life almost popped once.
Actually, there has been many times where I’ve squeezed it, sometimes whilst staring into the mirror of myself. Sometimes, whilst not looking long and hard enough.
I remember a mature man, he taught me in school and his face was battered with acne scars. Kids can be cruel and so he was taunted (behind his back) with names corresponding to the moon and craters.
He was crater face.
I felt sorry for him.
His face, so ravaged by pimples, left his teenage ailment as a lifelong visible memory.
I related to him, because within me; my heart, soul and mind was ailed.
I had been ravaged.
And there are scars.
I am filled with the pimples of life.
It is all below the sensory nerve endings.
It is within.
Resurfacing and aching to be picked at.
You learn to care for yourself when you’re different.
You find cleansing routines for the dirty bits.
It is hit and miss.
But eventually we all find what works best for us.
Or maybe we just learn to cover it up.
And sometimes you just learn to live with it.
I am lucky.
I do have beautiful skin.