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Skin Picker

A poem I wrote about my ongoing struggle with skin excoriation disorder (A.K.A. dermatillomania).

By Kate DuffyPublished 5 years ago 1 min read
Skin Picker
Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

Don't pick

I distract myself on my phone, scrolling through Instagram with my thumb

Don't pick

I found another product that's supposed to help with acne, I think I'll try it out

Don't pick

I can't touch my arms if I wear long sleeves every day

Don't pick

I tell my friends and family to stop me if they see me picking at my skin

Don't pick

I bite my nails until they're nothing more than nubs so they can't pierce my skin

Don't pick

There's blood on my face in the middle of a math test so I use my shirt to wipe it off

Don't pick

I only wear dark clothes because they mask the bloodstains

Don't pick

I get bangs to hide as much of my face as possible

Don't pick

I've been standing in front of the mirror for two hours, my face and arms are red

Don't pick

I need to buy new bandaids

Don't pick

There's more scarred skin than untouched skin on my arms and chest

Don't pick

I overhear a boy in my history class refer to me as a "skin picker"

Don't pick

I lock myself in the big stall of the bathroom and cry

Don't pick

It's okay, they say tears are good for your skin

Don't pick

I ask the doctor how to fix my skin

Don't pick

All she says is "stop picking"

DON'T PICK

I'm trying to

STOP

Don't you think I would if I could?

sad poetry

About the Creator

Kate Duffy

She/Her

Nineteen-year-old writer and journalist from San Diego, CA. Student at Arizona State University.

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