Skin care
I have always heard,
“Boys don’t cry,
And that boys definitely don’t need to take care of their
skin”
My dad reasons that
It’s emasculating. It’s weak.
Everywhere I see
Skin care products packaged for boys in dark colors
Described as “graphite, marble, glacier”
As if our skin was meant to feel like
The rough edges of a mountain
While skin care products packaged for girls were painted in
pastel colors
Described as “meadows, lilacs, cherry blossoms”
Just like their soft, porcelain skin
But how do I explain to my dad
That clear skin has no gender,
And how do I explain to him
That skin care is a choice
That I should be able to pick
Without judgment
Without shame
With respect
With acceptance
The “graphite, marble, glacier” or
The “meadows, lilacs, cherry blossoms”
And everything in between.
And how do I explain to him
That my skin too deserves to be lathered
That my skin too deserves to live
With freedom, choice and care.
Adult Acne
This weekend
I turn 35.
I work a full time job,
I have bills to pay,
I have a dog to feed,
And in spaces between these busy moments
I still feel the dire need
To prepare my face:
Hyaluronic acid for hydration,
Niacinamide for oil control,
Acne spot treatment for zits,
Retinol for wrinkles
Sunscreen to prevent hyperpigmentation,
Smoothing primer,
Heavy-duty concealer,
Thick foundation,
Dense powder,
Misty setting spray
To blur my blemishes
That takes hours to put on
And hours to take off.
My mother used to tell me, “It’s going to go away when you grow
up!”
But now I turn 35.
How much more do I have to grow up?
When do I feel comfortable in my own skin?
Maybe only then will I get that promotion,
Maybe only then will I find someone to love besides my dog,
Maybe only then will I feel beautiful.
But time is slipping away from me,
The growing fine lines on my face tell me so,
And I keep oscillating back and forth
From daunting experiences of the past and present
Yearning for new spells and potions on the internet
to somehow magically cure my skin
For time is slipping away from me
Slowly but surely
I am 35 years old
And when the night comes
I go to bed alone
Begging for clear skin
Physically debilitated
Wearing star-shaped hydrocolloid pimple patches
All over the surface of my face
Like trying to cover a colossal wound that never heals.
Untold narratives: my acne scars
My acne scars have stories to tell,
They are like polaroid pictures that did not turn out just
right
But I have eventually come to love.
The one on my upper lip
Shaped like a heart
Small, pink and fresh
Almost like a beauty mark
I got just around the time
I first kissed the boy I loved.
The constellations on my cheeks
From the time I did not sleep
Because I was up all night
In my bedroom
Talking sweet nothings to him
On a dirty telephone
Heavily pressed against my face.
The constellations stretched further
Camping on my crescent moon shaped chin
Which came along with
The luxurious chocolates that he gave me
The sweetness of it
I could not hide
For it came pouring out of my skin
Leaving behind nothing but
Sprinkles of little red planets as souvenirs .
Two summers later,
There were no more kisses,
No more late-night phone calls,
No more chocolates.
The boy I loved was long gone,
But the lingering memories of him
Rest gently
All over my face
Twinkling every day,
Just like the constellations.
Peripheral Vision
A girl sat next to me in college
We did not talk
For her glowing skin
Wreaked insecurity under mine
I could feel her deep eyes
Staring at me
From my peripheral vision
Jumping from one pimple to another
Like trying to connect the dots
Like she was trying to gross herself out
And I could feel my skin
Itching from her gaze.
I can see her
From my peripheral vision,
tracing my acne scars
Into her sketchbook;
scribbled lines, circles and dots she draws
She sees them as my face,
Complex and disturbing
My skin was not an artistic muse to her
But perhaps something to laugh about
After class
With her friends.
I return to class
The next day
From another episode of self-loathing and crying
In the bathroom
From another episode of obsessively touching my face
In front of the mirror
To a note full of
Scribbled lines, circles and dots
With little hearts all over the paper
And the bottom of the note reads:
“I like looking at your face, you are beautiful”.
Damaged Paintings
I adore Georgia O'Keeffe,
Her hands,
Curators,
Of the most elegant paintings:
Flowers, trees, mountains, waterbodies.
Garnished with gentle hues
Of warm and tender beauty
Untouched by time
Or so I think.
Only yesterday,
I read an article claiming that
The sunny disposition of O’Keeffe’s paintings
Have now lost their angelic power
And the rare beauty now compromised
Engulfed by a strange paint disease called “art acne”
Leaving unstoppable lesions of pimple-like bumps
Leaving art conservators worried,
Leaving art lovers traumatized,
Leaving me with questions.
Why are paintings now being called damaged?
Why are the art fanatics frantic?
It couldn't possibly be the blemishes?
For they add texture,
of sweet strawberries,
To layers of idle plain surface
For they add maturity,
Of O’Keeffe herself,
To a newborn, malleable painting.
And if her impeccable illustrations
Get a bad case of acne from time to time,
And so can we.
Mask-ne
I have a collection of face masks:
My everyday disposable masks in the shade of a dull blue,
my cozy cotton masks in a gingham print,
And my fancy silk masks with flower embroideries-
And they all share a secret world of their own.
What may appear as an ordinary fabric
Holds an ecosystem.
Droplets of warm air swirling around,
Heavy blows of wind as I talk,
Grease from my pores,
Giving life and energy
To the thirsty little organisms that live inside:
A population of old zits,
Dry and flaky and ready to be scrapped
A population of young zits,
Ripe and juicy and ready to be popped,
Multiplying uncontrollably to smaller baby zits
The media now calls it “Mask-ne”
A symbiotic relationship:
The ecosystem acts as a shield
against unwelcomed viruses
Those that do not belong in the ecosystem
And I in return,
A hospitable host
Like a flower to a bee
Like a sea anemone to a clown fish
Learning and adapting
The art of living together.
A PERFECT COMPOSTION
Painting and makeup
Are awfully
Similar:
Fanned brush, angular brush, flat brush,
Palettes, sponges, rollers
To create
A sweet amalgam
Of lines, dots, shapes
Of complementary hues,
Of analogous hues,
Of shadows and highlights
Of negative spaces
But with
One personal
Addition:
I used to paint
My canvas
To capture a glimpse
Of the reality
Just as it is
Now I paint
My face
To accentuate
My own reality.
But then the
Comedogenic makeup molecules
Start clogging my skin
Wreaking havoc,
Modifying
Its texture and tone
Overlapping fine lines.
My face now
Has shifted
To Jackson Pollock’s idea
Of a perfect composition.
Mask-ne
I have a collection of face masks:
My everyday disposable masks in the shade of a dull blue,
my cozy cotton masks in a gingham print,
And my fancy silk masks with flower embroideries-
And they all share a secret world of their own.
What may appear as an ordinary fabric
Holds an ecosystem.
Droplets of warm air swirling around,
Heavy blows of wind as I talk,
Grease from my pores,
Giving life and energy
To the thirsty little organisms that live inside:
A population of old zits,
Dry and flaky and ready to be scrapped
A population of young zits,
Ripe and juicy and ready to be popped,
Multiplying uncontrollably to smaller baby zits
The media now calls it “Mask-ne”
A symbiotic relationship:
The ecosystem acts as a shield
against unwelcomed viruses
Those that do not belong in the ecosystem
And I in return,
A hospitable host
Like a flower to a bee
Like a sea anemone to a clown fish
Learning and adapting
The art of living together.
Social Media Complaint
Instant Miracle
Social/Emotional distancing
Sitting close to people,
Holding hands, kissing, hugging
Without a worry
Having wonderful conversations
About hopes and dreams
Making unforgettable plans and yet
Their eyes feel like a magnifying glass
Looking at a terrifying sight
Of my face
Like a crime scene,
So close and
I get nervous.
Now 6 feet apart,
Masks up,
My skin is still terrible
Those magnifying glasses
Are far away from me
Yet I feel like they can still see
Every inch of my
face and
I get nervous.
But I feel much lonelier now,
With no one around
Just me and my skin
No conversations,
No more plans,
No distractions,
I can feel the wave
Of emotional distancing
Crashing in and
I get nervous.
All this time spent,
Trying to avoid being the focal point
Of people’s vision yet
I could not get rid of
My own magnifying glasses
Which are forever glued to my face,
And I scan and scan
my imperfections
Obsessively,
All day long;
Perhaps I need
Social distancing, emotional distancing
From my own skin.