As I walk in a brave, lonesome pattern, two devils stare right at my noticeable presence. Both look, they laugh, smiling as if to burst into rude, giggling pleasure. I am gone, moving on like a bird. At the destination I am questioned by a known soul. She asks, "What happened?" "Do you have allergies?" I shrug, and just say as honest as I can, "I broke out. It's something I do." My face is not clear, but my head is of all who look and feel disgusted with my acne. Beauty Queens should have no obligation for lack of weight, long hair, and clear skin. I don't have clear skin. I am broken out and beautiful as can be. This surface covers none of my bravery, compassion, and dignity. You don't have to call me beautiful. I already do that. The devils rudely stare and laugh. The stranger cares and wonders. I carry persistence and strength. I know I am beautiful. I am in no hurry for anything to clear up. Nor the sky, nor my face. I hide none of my beauty.
People are staring at my breakouts. Heck, I do not care I know I am beautiful.