Dermatillomania (draft 2)
The scabs on my face, concealed with layers of expensive makeup, my feeble attempt to cover the shame of my disorder
The flip of my hair, not a flirtation technique, but a carefully choreographed curtain pull, distracting eyes from the dancers making their way off stage
My roots greased down by the weave of my fingers, forever searching the loom for unwanted debris pulled into the wool
My fingers wrapped in medical tape as a last desperate attempt to avoid the gravity of my obsessions like the sea against a full moon
My scalp, cratered like the surface of Mercury, a messenger to my anxiety
The field of wounds across my chest, blooming forever like rolling hills of poppies, pollinated and thriving
My upper back, littered with stars, red giants, a vast universe ever expanding
The look of terror on my face as I scream at the top of my lungs in my mind to stop, just fucking stop, as I continue to remove every flaw like weeds woven through a garden
My trashcan full to the brim with blood covered tissues and toilet paper, the leftover waste of a trauma survivor in the ER
Me, in my car at lunch, applying more layers of paint, an artist creating a landscape of the sea, soft sandy beaches, no litter in sight
The tears carrying away my freshly laid veil, when the creams and powders won’t stick to a new wound, a stigmata self inflicted
What you see is the tip of an iceberg in an ocean of OCD
So when you see my adhesions break through all the efforts of deception,