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.

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.