I hate that I can't smile. Not literally, physically I can smile, and I do smile a lot. Things are funny to me. What I mean when I say, I can't smile, is in photos. Every photo of me smiling looks like I just finished committing a horrible crime.
I hate that I can't wear short sleeves or take my shirt off in public. I have and been met with the gasping chills of my burden of a body riddled with moles. Big moles, small moles, flat moles, popping out mountain moles from the top of my head down to my toes and everywhere in between. I'm a prisoner in my clothes looking out at the world of beautiful smoothed skinned people enjoying themselves.
That's probably while my smile is grim. I know I'm going to hate myself when I look at it.
I'm getting old and this self-conscious feeling is getting real old. When does a person wake up and stop caring?
I want to love myself, I want to care for myself. I don't hate myself. I didn't ask for this body, but I have to endure it. Everyday, every hour, every minute, every second I look down and see them plaguing my skin.
It's not that bad, it could be worse. Yeah, one grew into a tumor and they had to cut my face open to dig it out and slice my cheek to stretch the skin over to graph it back together leaving a giant scar that irritated the skin around it leaving constant redness and bumps that haven't healed after a year and a half.
And another one could show up any day.
But it could be worse.
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