Skin

Smooth, perfect, porcelain skin
But it wasn’t mine.
Mine was freckled with red dots
Varying in size and space.
I stared at the large picture on Vogue’s cover;
I glared in the overwhelming mirror in my bathroom.
I compared the two images.
Even though there isn’t a book on what beauty is or means,
I always knew that wasn’t me.
My mom tells me not to worry,
“You’ll grow out of it,” she says.
But what usually only happens to teens
Still happens to me as an adult.
My family all share olive tones and even textures.
My skin is scarred and cracking under the pressure,
but somehow increasingly oily at the same time.
Medicine bottles and ointments crowd my bathroom counter.
Still full from weeks without use.
They never work anyways.
Tears fall rapidly into my large oval pores.
If only those were a magical serum;
My skin would be flawless and glowing.