i pick at my skin it a desperate attempt to pull the anxiety out.
if it could ooze out every pore and tear,
maybe i wouldn’t be shaking,
fueled with the rage and fear panic attacks hold.

i pick at my body to rip at the insecurity.
scars are a sign of my fragile self image,
makeup is the mask i use to forget.
a thick black line tracing my eyelids;
a heavy layer of powder masking the blushing of my cheeks.

i pick at my mind to understand what this diagnosis means to me.
i pick and i pick and pick at every idea and thought of this hell the universe has placed me in.
i tear and rip at them until my mind is as numb as my skin.
i pick until i can pretend i can understand.