theres something beautiful about popping pimples. Something refreshing like Christians enjoy baptism, I enjoy squeezing the dirt oil and grime from my body, and the empty holes it leaves behind can gasp for air once again. There is a rebirth, when my pores can see the light. There is a self awareness, when I look deep into my skin to find even the pustules which try and escape banishment from the sickle and hammer that is my thumb and forefinger.
I feel clean. I feel pain, but a good pain, a pain of suffering to create a new life. Like a phoenix is born from fire, I too must torch the old worn out and beat up for a new.
Unfortunately in every battle lives are lost. My pores are no exception. I have battle scars from relentless evils which harbored my body for themselves and i refused to let them win. In the end, we both lost. Just as in all fighting. Ironically, without fighting we would never know what we had to begin with. A necessary evil perhaps, but like anything else it can get out of hand, it can consume. Once you stop learning from your mistakes, you never make mistakes again. Course, youre life wont last much longer either, but who cares? If you are always right.