Broken

I hate whenever I have a lot on my mind. When I go deep into thought, it’s almost as though I’ve entered a trance-like state and my hands start to wander. They skim over the surface of my body hunting for imperfections – scratches, pimples, insect bites, paper cuts, heat rash. And then once I’ve found even the tiniest of blemishes I send my fingers to work and I begin to pick until I’m red, raw and aching.

I can’t get out of my head at the moment. I’m so in my head that the only way I know how to get out of it is to pick. So far today I have already picked off every blemish on my face, torn apart the top of my back and my arms and I’m now sitting here picking at every spot I can find as well as feel on my legs. I’m bleeding and weeping and that’s just what you can see on the outside. The inside of me is a mess.

I feel broken.

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Posted on December 28, 2012, in Picking. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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