The acne hurts

Abstract

Once, a girl in my class saw them when I was changing for PE and asked me: "What happened to you?" While pointing at my hips, I told her that my cat had scratched me and she rolled her eyes. My eyes widened in horror, but he believed me because that's what my stretch marks looked like: savage scratches from a monstrous cat. Although the stretch marks were nothing compared to the pimples. At first I only had a few scattered ones, which is normal, but then more and more appeared. Then, almost overnight, they turned into deep, cystic acne. Thick, hard lumps that have formed under the skin of your back, shoulders, neck, and face. It's not a cool story, nor a tragedy that people like to hear. It's disgusting. She would look at my backside on any surface where she could see my reflection. I was paranoid about leaving any traces. The pimples on his shoulders sometimes burst and stained his shirt. I was something unpleasant, something that was releasing liquid, something uncontrollable. My body was an embarrassing mess. I felt too embarrassed to leave the house unless I had no choice. No, it was worse than that. I felt too ashamed to exist.