Gardening of the face

They call it excoriation
It is when you cannot stop picking
And scraping, and pinching
And squeezing and the digging
Into your flesh uncontrollably
Your mind zooms in on your skin
Hyper focusing on the imperfections
The hairs, the textures, the wrinkles
The zits, pimples, white heads, black heads
Mirrors bring your hands to your face
As if the mirror summons them up
Your nails your weapons of choice
If you have any left... Because you cut them
You cant make yourself bleed...
If they are blunt and thus unusable
Some use fire to burn off the hair
Tilting their chin up and holding the lighter
The smell of burnt hair floating up
Others sharpen already sharp tweezers
To dangerous needle like points
It's the gardening tools of your face
Hair growing where it shouldn't
Cut down, burned, plucked raw
Imperfect weeds brutally torn out
There's no way to describe reaching in
Into the holes you've created just to pull...
Tug out a small bloody piece of weeds
Beauty is pain... Right?