By Olaitan Joy Damilola
Do not pluck a pimple before it is ripe
It may rise one day at night
Pulsating, quivering pustule.
Monster of pus and gloom,
It shall crawl up to your bed,
Slipping in your dark, dark room.
It shall lay next to your head,
Taking shape of a lover or friend.
It shall take hold of your dreams.
Ride mares made of pus and blood.
And just when you think you are safe.
A stream of pus, after you, will trickle.
An ocean of blood after you, will flood.
You shall wake filled with dread,
Put a finger to your head,
Find the corpse of the pimple- dead
It's little tomb- a huge blackhead.
Open your eyes, its ghost in your bed.
Thirsting for revenge, it lurks and lingers,
To pop you between fingers like,
Sweet agbalumo in human fingers.
Do not pluck a pimple before it is ripe,
Or it shall pluck you before your prime.
Olaitan Joy Damilola, is a Nigerian who loves to write about anything she can think of. For reasons beyond her, she is currently studying medicine in Obafemi Awolowo University. Her hobbies include painting, reading and finding fleeting hobbies to obsess over before moving on to another, equally fleeting hobby. You can find her on Instagram.