Post by lauryn on Apr 27, 2005 16:42:43 GMT -5
I stare intently into my bathroom mirror, stained with emissions from past sessions, at the microscopic fleshy masses that have caused me this pain. This is the part that feels so good. I have a mission and it’s very clear. I have to eliminate whatever has taken up residence within each and every pore. I must choke them to within an inch of their lives, but I must stop before I see blood. It’s a very delicate situation much like surgery. I reassure myself, tweezers in hand that this is what I have to do. If I don’t I’ll die or worse I’ll have another attack where my heart zips around in my chest like a rocket and my breathing slows to an erratic pulse. I don’t like that feeling and I definitely can’t have another one of those again. Besides, I’ve got things to do; my favorite show is on and I have to return my stack of library books that are six weeks overdue and I want to brush my teeth and eat.
I’m back to the mirror again. All I see is ugliness where there once was perfection. Massive pores open and inviting, tempting me to squeeze, litter my face. They’re on my nose. They’re on my cheeks. They’re on my chin and all I can think about is pressing two ruthlessly eager fingertips betwixt them. I’m crying now, yet I feel fantastic. It’s cathartic. Little waiflike tears drip slowly into the creases of my face and find their way to my mouth. I love the way tears taste. They remind me of the way things used to be before I had these missions. Nevertheless, I continue compressing the shit out of the hollow of my cheek. Before, there was nothing there but I could feel it. I could feel it dying to come to the surface, taunting me. I hate this part of my face. It makes for the biggest and most tedious extractions. Finally, what was trying to come to the surface does. But it’s not what I wanted. It’s not what I needed it to be. It’s just pus and now I'm crying even more because I know, I know in my heart that I’ve messed up. I’ve fucked up. I’ve ruined the mission but I can’t abort because there’s more work to be done. I haven’t got to the other side. I try and convince myself that the other side will be better. What I want will come and then I can stop.
The next cheek with its remnants of last weeks mission still fresh makes an even more difficult target. I decide that my forehead is the next best thing and proceed to dig my index fingernail into every bump that I can feel. As I scrape along blood, yes blood makes an entrance and now I can’t make it stop. The blood won’t stop and neither will my fingers. They begin to peel of old scabs, new scabs, good skin, bad skin, my forehead is a war zone. I’ve pressed too hard and my face has exploded in anger. It’s covered in spots of cherry red. It’s inflamed and hissing back at me.
“Fuck you!” I yell.
And then it’s over. I have no desire to continue. It's been 2 hours and I’m satiated.
My mission is complete.
I’m back to the mirror again. All I see is ugliness where there once was perfection. Massive pores open and inviting, tempting me to squeeze, litter my face. They’re on my nose. They’re on my cheeks. They’re on my chin and all I can think about is pressing two ruthlessly eager fingertips betwixt them. I’m crying now, yet I feel fantastic. It’s cathartic. Little waiflike tears drip slowly into the creases of my face and find their way to my mouth. I love the way tears taste. They remind me of the way things used to be before I had these missions. Nevertheless, I continue compressing the shit out of the hollow of my cheek. Before, there was nothing there but I could feel it. I could feel it dying to come to the surface, taunting me. I hate this part of my face. It makes for the biggest and most tedious extractions. Finally, what was trying to come to the surface does. But it’s not what I wanted. It’s not what I needed it to be. It’s just pus and now I'm crying even more because I know, I know in my heart that I’ve messed up. I’ve fucked up. I’ve ruined the mission but I can’t abort because there’s more work to be done. I haven’t got to the other side. I try and convince myself that the other side will be better. What I want will come and then I can stop.
The next cheek with its remnants of last weeks mission still fresh makes an even more difficult target. I decide that my forehead is the next best thing and proceed to dig my index fingernail into every bump that I can feel. As I scrape along blood, yes blood makes an entrance and now I can’t make it stop. The blood won’t stop and neither will my fingers. They begin to peel of old scabs, new scabs, good skin, bad skin, my forehead is a war zone. I’ve pressed too hard and my face has exploded in anger. It’s covered in spots of cherry red. It’s inflamed and hissing back at me.
“Fuck you!” I yell.
And then it’s over. I have no desire to continue. It's been 2 hours and I’m satiated.
My mission is complete.
