i watch the skin around my finger grow back only to pull it off again.
my fingers ache every morning,
and lately they ache holding a pencil.
this has taken over my life.
no, i'm sorry the reason why i can't shake or hold your hands is not because i'm sick but because i'm scared you'll see my hands and look at me with disgusted eyes,
or skin i haven't yet picked off will get caught onto yours.
i can't stop.
if you sat me in  a room with nothing,
my anxiety would grow and sooner or later the skin that has been brought to life again would end up on the floor.

sometimes it's the nails on my fingertips, sometimes it's the skin bitten off of my lips, I'm laying in this bed as I'm eating myself alive
either out of desire to escape or a way to sustain some obscure feeling of existing despite living a life that only consists of rapid decaying

my stomach's mostly filled with my own finger nails and skin,
but no matter how many years pass, i can't seem to swallow myself whole

the me that exists today is just something i unwillingly regurgitate