Prickly metal and burning need, my tweezers are food for an addiction they feed. Like crack and acid, a wild mental state breaks free, its comfort, and solace and freedom for me. Ashen red cysts cover my legs and my hands, whats left on my head hangs bright red and in strands. I have no control, a slave to myself, my sanity spirals, and so does my health. My hair is the enemy in an endless bloody fight, I continue the carnage well into the night.
If the addiction was killed, and I started anew, I fear so strong willed, that I would die too.














Comments
It was more severe a couple years ago, but I'm getting better, after several infections.
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Hay!
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