Dermatillomania
its october and my hand is shaking, the surface of my skin gives way.
quiet trembling, only seen if one is searching. a desolate, dry waste, dead flakes clinging to the surface like leaves in autumn's final days.
i'm gazing into nothing as i plunge my dull nails through countless layers of skin in search of a way to be clean, to look normal, to not draw concern when all i need is warmth
it's a paradoxical cycle promising peace by way of hurt.
as futile as fire on a flame or bargaining for peace with price of pain; tomorrow this battle will remain.