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.