There are little bumps on my face. I call them bumps because it sounds so much less aggressive than zits, pimples, acne, pustules or blemishes. They make me feel disgusting and they pilfer my confidence, break it into a thousand fragments – one for each bump – and leave it for dead until all that’s left is debris.
These bumps are a militia, ruthless and unrelenting. My skin is their battlefield. They break me down until I’m forced to use my smile as armor. Until eventually, they break that too. Not even my cuspids stood a chance.
I’ve tried to drown them in ointments and smother them in creams. I’ve forced them to fight against pills and retreat to the trenches. I covered them in masks and foundation and concealer and oils and soaps and photoshop and every concoction I could muster, but my artillery is no match for theirs.
All I have left is the hope that one day they’ll wave a white flag and let my skin shine like it did for years before they declared war.