Dermatillomania

These once so sacred arms became animated landmines.

Years of Self Practice of the art.

Scabbed over and picked off,

till every inch of skin becomes smooth.

a whole body tattooed in old scars.

nails embedded with blood.

a tick, an itch, picked apart, never to be satisfied.

an uncontrollable monster hidden beneath.

a bite of the lips, tear at the cheek, the taste of copper between the teeth.

an urge for perfection, a craving so neat.

Soreness from head to feet, No bump left behind.

Comfort to a racing mind.

Production with little time.

A motivational rhythm, nicked to soothe.

Habits laced in Boredom.

A Repetition of broken thoughts, Cursed by a self-absorbed crime.

Just to look into the mirror, Eyes staring back in confusion.

Hating what you see.

Reminded from those around, That you are a freak.

Only to wash, rinse and repeat.

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This was a personal poem on my skin picking disorder. I was finally able to tell in words what the experience is like.

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