I hate the word “zit.”

one time I wrote a poem

about a pimple I popped on my forehead, crusty blood —

we workshopped it in class, and I didn’t think they would realize it was about a pimple and they did, embarrassing me into saying that it wasn’t and that’s weird —

when I couldn’t think of anything

else to write, which I think is very befitting,

just as this is.

Published by celinamcmanus

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