"trich" poems
Lately I find myself
wanting to talk about my
trichotillomania.
I think I want to find someone else
that knows what I'm going through.
I have never talked about it
on social media except one time.
And someone thought I had an
STD simply because they were
uninformed.
Embarrassed and ashamed
I quickly deleted it.
I shouldn't be ashamed.
Or embarrassed.
It's relevant. And real.
So, pretty much if you have trich
or just want someone to talk to
about it,
please comment or message me.
I know that isn't what this website is for,
But I feel most comfortable here.
And you can too.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
Sit
and place your hands somewhere you cannot reach.
Breathe
just like each day you've lived and breathed before.
Feel
the tension building up within your spine.
Try
to fill your shaking hands with something new.
Fail
to keep your brittle, breaking will in check.
Run
your fingers through the graveyard on your head.
Fight
the urge that wants to pull you to the edge.
Lose
yourself in treacle truths and bitter tastes.
One.
You find that bare and balding patch of skin.
Ten.
Each pluck removes a tiny piece of sin.
Thirty.
The pain reminds your mind that you're alive.
Forty.
The shame reminds your heart you want to die.
Fifty.
Demonic hungers spur your fingers more.
Sixty.
And hair by hair you carpet wooden floors.
Eighty.
You picture faces of the ones you love.
Ninety.
Your innocence lives like a dying dove.
Hairs
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.
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
orange juice and a rabid flight
of love for you but not the kind
of love requiring either bent
over the counter. the kind
of love where what is one
is alls'. is everyones', is
everything and there is never
one - either side - going wanting
for our emotions shared are
those mutually lost in the greater
mass of what humanity has
culled into their concept of
social awareness and some
chick ranting about the collective
consciousness. they're evil, or so
told. and onward, always forward
but never straight to remember
a perpetual motion of the hands
controlled by the soul -
that's what's called the mind these days.
forgone, for a single word,
far gone and lost in the wind with
sails ripping from the flushed canvas
swollen by the trade winds -
not those trade winds, but ours.
our conversation and appreciation,
and this allegory - metaphor more likely -
is of the soul being the true vessel
when the vessel is the last vessel,
and to please the dying vessel,
repeat in infinity this ******* cycle
of Samsara. en eternal vessel of meat
ground fine to be filtered through
silicone. this is our ship, this spurned
burger of muscles that succumbs
to parasites finding us pork.
eat the **** gain the trich unlike caring
Canadians who destroyed the
pig in them. destroyed the mentality of
what is wrong but quit? why ever try
for greater, and learning is not an
end to a means. and again the souls
vessel - allegorized Ulysses proper -
is in metaphor a ship, breath the trade
winds and wisdom precious cargo.
the null are bandits, the haired beast
of both the North and South . .
barbarous action through organization
and labeling of existence as A to B,
as A to Z, and realize that means
twenty-six is the end.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
I feel even more alone
in this,
people know so little
that they thought it was an STD.
Honestly,
I worry that no one
will ever know or care
about something that
really plagues people's lives.
Something that takes over mine.
Some days I feel so
self conscious about the lack
of hair on my head that I
won't go out in public.
I can feel the unspoken stares,
and the amount of ignorance
when someone says,
Just stop
You really don't know how
much I wish it was that easy.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
my good friends dog died. she was old and she liked to sleep next to the heater and they took her away and never brought her back. she told me in the first period locker rooms, when my buzzcut was still patchy from trich and unsteady hands and it was still cold outside. she cried and cried and told no one else. just me. no one posted pictures of her dead dog, said goodbyes, made instagram posts about it. she was just gone. we went to her house and her bed was empty and no one said anything. like she never happened. my friend was terrified of remembering her and i was terrified of forgetting her;
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC
You're back but you are not welcome, such a familiar feeling to have you consume me entirely once again. Trichotillomania, trich for short, a big word with a simple meaning. I. Pull. My. Hair. Eyelashes....pressure....have to pull...needs to be out...can't focus...can't speak...can't move...hair...pressure....eyelash....get out....leave me alone...don't do it....too late....its bad....how bad...bad....I did it. It's out. The pressure is gone, for now. I can breathe again. But then I see myself for what trich has done to me and I hate what I am, I hate how I look. Why do I do this to myself? Why trich? Why do you let me do this?
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 7:26 PM UTC
Lost control...
Urges like
pins and needles
pierce and numb
First finger and thumb
move with misplaced
enthusiasm
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 6:26 PM UTC
I have tried opening up
to him.
I started telling him about
my trich,
because lately I feel like I
need to talk about it more
than ever.
But I have no one that will listen.
He just sat there silently,
so I assumed he was listening,
but then the subject was changed.
Ow.
How can a person feel all of these
feelings and deal with all
of these emotions alone.
Tonight he gave me 15 minutes
of his silent time on the phone,
even though we won't communicate
again until tomorrow.
So I guess I will keep talking
to all of you,
in hopes that maybe one of you
is listening..
Just this time.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC