Private Clobetasol the newest member of our ranks. Fresh, white faced, crisp corners, rigid form. With that sickening sweet n' sour smell of confidence and plastic box. It’s almost hopeful, almost inspiring, each time you press him he bounces back, like magic, like he’ll never run dry. I doubt he’ll last a month. Next in line Sergeant Triamcinolone With cap crusted brown 'n yellow, jagged, curling, brandishing each of our desperate moments like badges. Barely standing on his tilted top he braces for emergencies only. Then the ladies, CeraVe, Nivia, and Aquaphor. Doing their rounds in the night CeraVe, a wide form, stiff insides, She’ll sting, But loosen every crevice. Nivia, tall and curvy, She won’t last long But you’ll smell like you never got drafted. Aquaphor, a sloppy, oozing mess. You’ll stain your clothes, you’ll smell like bed rot But you’ll sleep through lightning bugs and morning bugles. Dr. Kheil’s (who’s not a doctor.) Mouth of a scientist, (fake white cap) No one knows what they do. But fear what will happen if we ignore his solemn smiles. So we pay our dues. And Cetaphil and Jergens, and Eucerin and Tiger Balm and all the other soldiers they promised would win this war. They sag against each other in the back of a barracks discarded, forgotten, half used. Finally the Benadryl, a time bomb sleeping amongst the regular Allegra. Strangles everything it touches, the incisive, the invasive, the innocent. Even its allies suffer in the neurotoxic brain fog. We fear it but we need it, and we use it more and more, We wait in horror when it becomes the only resource we have. Till we’re nothing but a half dead beast. Till even It becomes ineffective. The public says this war is in our mind. The public says dry skin is normal. The public says, calm down, focus on something else, recharge, self discipline, ignore it, busy your hands, your mind, keep yourself clean, dirty little hands, self negligence… The public says it until you’re saying it yourself, … until you’re screaming at your blotches, the red fire patches, stiffening elbows, and crumbling neck. Till eyes peek out of crusted slits and cry from bleeding lips, just to see the public's pity party, pouty creamy cheeks complain: their Beauty is Pain. And we swallow more pills, and we rub in more steroids, and we nod our heads at every overstuffed beauty queen Dermatologist that thinks they’re the shit. Shivering whispers from barracks to front line. It’s coming. A poison ripping the epidermis. My soldiers, my brethren, my hope, they say nothing. They know. No negotiations, no treaties, this war will follow us to Three shots Elbow Neck Eyelid. Cold, sweet, earth coddling my burning scabs, winter rain sinking deep deep into cracks and weeping rashes. Their rash, my hope. Their blemish, my wet dream. Their normal, my heaven. What is normal? This war is for me and my normal. -RM