and place your hands somewhere you cannot reach.
just like each day you've lived and breathed before.
the tension building up within your spine.
to fill your shaking hands with something new.
to keep your brittle, breaking will in check.
your fingers through the graveyard on your head.
the urge that wants to pull you to the edge.
yourself in treacle truths and bitter tastes.
You find that bare and balding patch of skin.
Each pluck removes a tiny piece of sin.
The pain reminds your mind that you're alive.
The shame reminds your heart you want to die.
Demonic hungers spur your fingers more.
And hair by hair you carpet wooden floors.
You picture faces of the ones you love.
Your innocence lives like a dying dove.
in hundreds lie around your pillowcase,
around, not on, your sore and bleeding scalp.
Each time you vow to never pick again,
but Trich plays tricks and makes you take his help.