I’m getting ready for another night out, painting my face thick with concealer and foundation, over-powdering my face, and dousing my cheeks in golden glitter and pink blush. I’m using one of those mirrors with the perfect lighting which is supposed to help me apply my makeup perfectly, but it distracts me instead.
I bring my face closer to the mirror and I can see every dark spot, blackhead, premature wrinkle, and this one nasty and stubborn acne scar. It sits on my cheek to the left of my nose. It looks like maybe there was once a little tiny ball in there, and, one day, someone used a pair of tweezers to pluck it out, leaving behind a deep pit. When I start to apply concealer on the cavity, the paste actually sinks into it instead of sitting on top of it, drawing more attention to it instead of hiding it.
I used to have the most perfect skin. It was so clear and soft that it looked airbrushed in real life, and I didn’t even take good care of it. In fact, I barely washed it, I was always touching it with dirty fingers, and I didn’t even own moisturizer. I wore no makeup, and I put in zero effort.
But one day, I felt an ache on my cheek. I could see nothing there, but when I touched the spot, it pulsed and throbbed. I decided to leave it alone, thinking it would disappear on its own. Every day, the ache became more and more painful. I’d press into the surrounding skin, addicted to the pain that would shoot down to my toes and sometimes make my lip swell. I’d pinch and squeeze, fascinated by this growth living under my skin.
One day, it broke free from the first layer, there for the entire world to see. It was an angry pimple, colored burnt red, and built up from years of neglect—clogged with dirt, grime, and oil.
I had nurtured and fed it, without meaning to, without even realizing. I had allowed it to root itself from
me, into me, manifesting into a physical thing from my own negligence—a monument to my past
decisions, my lack of care, my desperate attempts to fix it too late.
The pimple grew at the rate of a newborn, getting uglier and uglier each day. It became too painful to smile. Each morning, I would try to cover up the disgusting spectacle, but the pimple would fight off any spot treatment or concealer like an antibody brawling a foreign virus.
One night, I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I ran into my bathroom, fueled by anger, leaned in close to the mirror, aligned my two fingers on either of the ripe pimple, and squeezed the skin together as hard as I could.
I didn’t care about my sister’s warnings: that you shouldn’t pop pimples because it will leave a scar. All I cared about at that moment was getting rid of it.
The pimple resisted at first, the pressure and pain building up, but when I approached it from a new angle, it finally burst—a wave of pus and blood splattering my bathroom mirror. A triumphant smile spread across my face.
I had tried to control this pimple, change it, cover it, fix it for so long, and now, I could let go.
I’ve had this hole in my face for years, and I’ve tried many things to get rid of it, but it remains, like a stubborn blood stain on a white pillowcase. I tell myself that I’m used to it by now, but when I really analyze it like in the mirror tonight, I feel regret.
I wish I was patient enough to take care of the pimple—not to bug it so much, and to not force its ending instead of letting it fade on its own. I wish I had taken better care of my skin so that a pimple would have never formed in the first place. I feel guilt and sadness when I think about all the things I should have or could have done differently.
I try to tell myself that, despite all the bad history, I also love this crater—that it makes me nostalgic, and that it’s a permanent reminder of what once was. But really, it’s a permanent reminder of how I can never afford another one on my face—it can only take so many blemishes.
I take care of my skin now, spending hundreds of dollars on expensive moisturizers, face washes, and serums. I’ve made a promise that I will never let myself get a pimple that bad ever again.
I turn off my mirror with the harsh lighting. No one will notice my crater in the dark. But I will always know it’s there.
Writer | Olivia Tenant ’27 | otennant27@amherst.edu
Editor | Edwyn Choi ’27 | ehchoi27@amherst.edu