A constellation of red peaks, a teenage rebellion on your skin's canvas, erupting uninvited but unavoidable.

What is black when it’s clean and white when it’s dirty?

Eleven siblings have I And I am number ten I should have been the eighth But we got jumbled up again Between the last and first of us They always drop the ball And just before I rest the Weird and wicked come to call What am I?

I spread my limbs up to the air My children fall upon the ground Or do I tint a coat of mare? A tired joke gone round and round But you'd be wrong If you had thunk I was a loon Inside a trunk

I close out light or lose my sight, In slats or senses, day or night. I dim the world or fail to find, what others see, I leave behind.