Content Creator: Thrisha Sanjeev Content Editor: Anchita Shetty Blog designer: Halima Asif (Trigger Warning) My face has been your ground since fifth grade. You pop up every time this indecisive Bangalore weather shows its colours, or even when the heat is too much to take for my body. The 'it' guy called me a pimple head and the 'it' girl's face contorted with disgust every time she saw me. That tiny tot, manipulative for her age, counted you on my forehead. The judgmental 'aunties' recommended countless treatments that I tried relentlessly, a policing force to remove you from that ground of skin, yet, you were stubborn, seemingly here to stay. Then suddenly, back in the blues of 9th grade, a person that I once saw a friend in, gave me some unsolicited advice, "Just pop them, it will go away. It does for me!" and I followed it until it led me to my ruins. You were gone, but the scars remained. I saw my face in the mirror and cried countless times. I didn't know what to do. I blamed the friend for my sorrow, my problems, but all the while, it was me who was solely responsible for this. But one fine day, I made a firm decision. I won't do it. I will not. I should not pick my skin. I did fail a couple of times, but I try not to do it. To show you, no, to show me that I'm better than the person, I was in 9th grade, who thought too deeply about judgements, and fell into the vicious spiral of self-hate. The times I failed, I tried to get rid of you because I hated your remains, those scars. But today, I try not to pick at you, because I love that ground you shuffled about on, the body, supporting that ground—my face. I don't hate you anymore. I accepted you now. You might be the scars of yesterday, but you're still a part of me, today.
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