I itch. I scratch. I now bleed.
I look down, and feel the warm ooze of sanguine fluid as I rub my middle finger and thumb together, mixing inconspicuous amounts of pimple pus into the crimson stain drying before My curious eyes.
I look up–she's looking back at Me.
I'm devoid of shame, and she doesn't gag.
We've both had our fair share of pimple pus grace our blemished lives, and we're stronger for it when people stare.