The spots on my face form
constellations.

When I connect the dots, one by one,
I can see the millions of people who
have lived
continue to live
and will live
in this galaxy of acne.

I don’t get sloppy smooches or
purposeful pecks planted
on my forehead.
If a lone kiss happens to land, let’s say
from a distant relative who has not seen me since
I was a spot-free baby,
it is by accident.

I try not to sweat to avoid
irritation.
I restrict myself to a diet without
fats and oils because I once heard from a close friend,
“Hey pizza face, don’t cha know pizza makes you break out.
Heh heh heh.”

Thank God for my parents,
who continue to suggest creams and
ointments and
different dermatologists should I
decide to “increase the level of aggression by a couple
degrees.”

But we all know the truth:
The red and inflamed constellations
are a part of me.
And my stars will continue to
Exist…

Until the day they blow
in a supernova.