sweet tiresome skin

Earthy hot chai. I make it creamy. Sipping my cup of cardamom and clove sweetened with warmed drips of honey.

I’m sleepy but I’m too tired to sleep. So I thought I would write instead.

Past few nights I have been having these flashes of ugly. I want my skin to be milk and mead when I run my hands down my body. The reality is more like a hive, angry and buzzing. I’m breaking out again like a teenager. My shoulder, my neck, my back, the parts I love, so smooth under my -well except for that spot – oh and that whole itchy part there – and ugh that part I know must be red and throbbing.

Body shapes, weights, lengths and curves, each to their taste. But poor skin is to no one’s taste.

It shouldn’t matter but it does. It is superficial but it bothers me. For a moment my marred skin is my marred sex.

So I know I will now work to try and get rid of it. Will wonder what doctor to listen to, what cream might work, what home remedy that countless people have seen fit to tell me about. I will try this and that, and then I will check every day, is it less, is it more. I’ll never know what worked, but it will disappear for weeks, maybe even months on end. And I will forget. And then it will just come back again some day.

Polishing and preening. Finding and thwarting. For whom? For how long? I am tired at the thought.