This Is Me: Love or Hate, Don't Care - Pop Session

I can pop my

own pimples—

remove the

white without

a scratch,

at least 3%

of the time.

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Call it instinct.

Precision.

Or stubbornness.

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After the battle,

my face burns red,

like I’ve been stung

by a hundred tiny wasps.

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Sometimes I don’t

even notice

until I meet

the mirror.

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People look like

I’ve done

something wrong.

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“Why would you do that?

Just let it be.”

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Let it be?

It doesn’t disappear—

it burrows deeper,

plots beneath the skin.

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Why pay someone

to pop my face

when I know

its secrets better?

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I don’t say that out loud—

especially to elders.

I hold my tongue.

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But holding back

doesn’t mean

I’m silent.

It means

I’ve learned

which truths

to carry quietly.

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