Veruccas

Now I'm not ususlly one for writing gory poetry, but I must stress, if you are easily disturbed by this sort of thing, please don't read on, as this is something that has ACTUALLY happened to me, when I was younger. Not an age rating but a mindfuck rating I guess?

From a sailing event,
I took them home,
At age Nine, unaware.

Thinking back, what a fucking cunt'd 've been
So idiotic to leave them there.

A week passed and in my feet,
Holes were emerging,
They weren't discreet.

A few months past
And there they were,
Those bloody veruccas,
My Allies to their Fuhrer.

Desperate, I picked
At the loathesome scabs,
But my nails'd broke,
Before the veruccas had.

Frenzied, almost addicted,
Age ten,
I took pumice stone and tweezers,
A war broke out then.

Their numbers kept growing, just picking
Didn't work,
I knew that to get rid of them, I'd have to make myself hurt.

Scrambling Age Eleven,
After showers , every Sunday, I tweezed them with all my might.

Suddenly, I manged to prise,
Back a tweezerful of Skin,
Revealing Pink Flesh, a wound, and blood that filled it in.

Doubting my choice, I attacked the barstards again,
Only to go wrong,
Where I knew I shouldnt've gone

I had ripped in too far,
I had tweezered too deep,
A small white fleshy lump,
Protruded from one of my feet.

Believing it to be the barstards' core I pulled with all my might,
It came out slowly and painfully,
And gave me a bad fright.

Dangling from those tweezers, was no verucca of mine
Startled, age twelve,
I knew this wasn't fine.

That little white ball,
Was a ball that I took
A tiny chunk of flesh,
From my bleeding left foot.

Age fifteen I look back at that pain,
And think of the scar it left,
And the veruccas, I'd never want to battle
Again.