poetic trichotillomania

My teacher looks at the wrap on my leg
and asks me if I am okay.


How do I say

that I remove
one of my body’s
protective layers
until the intense
   restlessness
and
   buzzing
finally ceases?


How do I say

that I use
   pens
and
   keys
and
   fingernails
to dig into my skin,
looking for
something
I will never find?


How do I say

that I make
myself bleed,
not on purpose,
but on
accident as
I seek for
something to
calm my
nerves?


How do I say

that no matter
how much I
know it is
   useless
and
   harmful
and
   outright cruel
I still destroy
parts of myself
to gain
   internal
and
   mental relief?


How do I say

that I count
the lashes on
my mirror as
I pull them out;
going in increments
of two because
oddities make me
sick to my
   stomach
and
   panicky?


How do I say

that even though
I am medicated
and I have
   full hands,
and I am
   always busy
I still find time to
create craters in
   my legs
and
   arms?


How do I say

that
  I dig
and
  I dig
and
  I dig
because I feel that
no-
I know that
there is something
In me that
needs to
get out soon
or
something will go
terribly wrong?


How do I say

that I think
the reason I
write poetry
and
choke on
metaphors
is an attempt
to
  string out
to
  pull out
to
  remove
this thing  
inside of me?


How do I say

that these
words are like
the hairs
I dig out of my
wrapped leg,
and
eventually
I will find the
right one,
and
I’m terrified that
when I do,
I won’t be
able to write
anymore?

The answer is I don’t, and I just tell him
That I am fine. Isn’t that close enough?