Acne

Classrooms
connected like the Qumran Caves
contained
manuscripts made of melanocytes;
my dead skin cells
not too dissimilar
to the dead sea scrolls.


Bacteria
blossomed
into bunches of blackheads,
while whiteheads grew
aggressively
greatly
ghastly.


There was no breaking out
of my pimply prison…
no escaping
into the seascape painting
painted
long before I hit puberty.


A teacher once told me
to play a part
in the overproduction of Grease;
I would’ve made a memorable Zuko
had it not been for my zits.


I tried topping myself
using a variety of toppings
just to wipe the cheesy smile off his face;
that boy bled the tangiest tomato puree
I’ve ever tasted.


Inflammatory
remarks
about my pockmarks
surrounding the role I played in Danny’s death;
they claim I killed that prick with an ice pick.


Fragments
of his body
wrapped in a blood-stained leather jacket
discovered inside
a man cave;
I’ll spend the rest of my life
behind the bars of boxcars
in the London Borough of
Hackney.

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