Tunnel Vision

I want to rip my face off. I pinch and poke in hopes of leaving a clean flattened surface. I long for my skin to smooth out. I assure myself I am aware of what I'm doing, and that I will make it right. Never once has it made it any better. All the same, I continue as a slave to my complexion. My skin screams at me with anger and redness as it begs me to leave it be. When my skin finally starts to heal, and I only have a few blemishes, I gaze into the mirror and start once more. It's as if a horse visor is strapped onto my face, trapping me. When I finally step back from the mirror, it's a mess. A part of me crys out to demolish it. Restart. Turn back time. Anything. It takes time to heal, but with every pick I set back the clock. Everyone around me has porcelain skin. They don't pick. I want to wrench it off. I yearn to weep until my face is clear. I watch myself crumbling, as I scramble to rebuild myself with broken pieces. But once more, I have tunnel vision.