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Riley Oct 2019
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.
Riley Oct 2019
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.
kk Jan 2019
im unliving. unloving. unlovely, within.
my skin buzzes under
moonlit nights. my fingers dig in.
i ruin myself, over and over.
i peel away
what makes me imperfect,
only to find
that
my sins
always grow back.
i am barely living.
the night peels back
these layers of tentative
satisfaction.
i find my mind naked
underneath the blackness. i lack
the ability to hide.
my barriers are meaningless,
factless,
as they really are.
where do i go to hide from the truth
while under this moonlight?
will i ever be perfect?
will i ever be great?
will i even be good enough?
i know the answer. i know the answer.
and there's nowhere to burrow away from it,
but my fingers find a way.
into my scalp, into my lips,
into my face,
and blood blooms.
i can still feel that.
i can still love that
sharp, stinging, pain.
im back! its been a while, i apologize. im hurting again, unfortunately. i dont know when ill be able to escape from these feelings. maybe never. and i hate that. i want to be okay so badly. this isnt very good, but im just trying to get all of this out, somewhere.
kk Jun 2018
dig
dig to soothe the obsession.
become acquainted with the bumps
along your scalp,
grimace at the knolls and lumps
and curse the imperfection.
you know what you came here for.
to seek solace from the ache of a brain
by roaming just along its shell.
the pain is hell
but the peel makes it worthwhile.
finally you skim chemical pleasure
with chipped keratin,
physical meets mental
in one scrape of a mining nail.
here in a languid stupor you lay
languishing in a deal between pleasure
and decay.
fade away
while you dig at the earth of your body.
out of all the habits i could've had, scalp picking had to be one of them i guess. thanks to my anxiety for that one
Anjana Rao Feb 2016
You were never meant to be a
pretty girl.

The adults always said
you were so beautiful as a baby,
had such a natural smile,
had such clear skin,
[what happened?]

You could have been
Beautiful,
but you spurned
Beauty.
Gave her the *******
didn't even try to tame fingers
that ripped yourself apart.

In the end
the adults were right.

There came a day
when you looked at yourself -
really looked,
surveyed the damage
and suddenly
you Cared.

You wanted to slink back to
Beauty,
beg for her forgiveness.

But it's not so easy
and it's not so simple.
You never had the
discipline,
never had the
follow through,
always did have

commitment issues.

So you made a choice.
If you couldn't have
Beauty
you would court
her opposite.

These days you
give the ******* to
Beauty
every time you
dare to look good
while baring your wounds, your scars
like tattoos,
like fine works of art.

These days you
make offerings to
The Grotesque
with your blade
and your blood
and your bits of skin and nails.

And Beauty's opposite
takes them all,
and Beauty's opposite
is easy to please
and

you were never meant to be a
pretty girl.
Mikayla Oct 2015
frenzied, idle hands clutching at my self confidence
i rip my self confidence from my fragile being and throw it to the floor
it shatters into a million tiny pieces of hair
the hair clings to everything,
my hands,
my clothes,
my soul.
i can never escape the tiny strands of hair i've pulled from my weeping body,
my hair follows me everwhere.
amanita Sep 2015
I look at my skin in the fogged up mirror

and I don’t see any redness

no dots

no blemishes

and I think,

“why can’t it be like this all the time?”

— The End —