The sensation of
peeling skin
is one of
comfort and horror.
It's like
wrapping yourself
in a blanket
after a
stressful day.
It’s calming.
Relaxing.
But it’s also
skin being torn
from your scalp,
your chest,
your back,
your neck,
your face.
Little ****** flakes of
“why did I do this”
and
“what’s wrong with me”.
But the soothing action
draws you back in.
Again.
And again.
Digging holes
into your scalp,
your chest,
your back,
your neck,
your face
with nails
you never knew
were this
sharp.
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 12:36 PM UTC
Skin tingling.
Scratch.
Pick.
Claw marks
a bright burgundy against fair skin.
It’s happening again.
It’s a violent urge.
An uncontrollable compulsion.
It’s bleeding skin and
it’s I want to stop but
it’s I can’t
and I won’t.
My hands are the
enemy
but it’s hard to win a
battle
against something
attached
to your own body.
Taped fingers do
nothing but
irritate.
A temporary fix for
a permanent problem.
Nowhere is safe.
Every piece of skin is
equal opportunity.
Distractions
don’t exist
in this world.
Nothing can stop these
hands and
it hurts to try.
A compulsion ignored
is like
pins and needles
across your
whole body.
It’s sitting still
shaking
unable to think of
anything else.
And so I–pick.
Scratch.
Run sharp claws
across soft skin.
Oct 24, 2019
Oct 24, 2019 at 12:29 PM UTC
Today I am consumed.
The monster is ready to
feast–Everything
is coming to a head
and I’m running from it.
This road always looks new;
my brain doesn’t know how to navigate it
and it’s catching up to me,
it always does.
I can not run forever.
He will not let me.
Like I said,
I am consumed.
The monster will
always
have me in it’s grip.
I may escape but do not
be tricked
as I have been,
it is not real.
The monster is purposeful.
It likes to let me go so
that it can play games.
It’s favorite game plays
with freedom.
Or freedom plays with me.
But that is not the game
we are playing
this time.
Today is about being
consumed.
It’s running until you’re cornered
or your legs give out
or both.
I try to hide but
the thoughts and feelings
inside me
are loud.
The monster can hear
them.
The monster can always
hear them.
It’s like they call for him
sometimes–tired
of this fake game of
escape.
It’s like he’s almost
comforting.
Like he’s better than this
treacherous road to
freedom.
I am familiar with him.
And he is familiar with me
and that is why he finds me.
I’d like to say that it hurts
when he consumes me
but it doesn’t.
It’s gentle,
loving
almost.
It’s familiar;
something known.
I forget he’s even there
sometimes. But
next time he let’s me out
I will run again. Because
no matter how gentle,
no matter how loving,
he scares me.
And he has always scared me.
You would have to meet
him to understand
but his eyes are sunken
and his teeth are sharp.
He could **** me and I
know
he wants to.
He tries sometimes
but that’s when I escape
again.
Because I don’t want to
die.
He’s comforting and
I’ll always be found or
I’ll always come back but
I don’t want to die.
And so I’ll let him
consume me
but I can’t let him **** me.
Oct 24, 2019
Oct 24, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC