This is a woman's war.
This is more than just a poem.
This is about Trichotillomania and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
This is about what feeds me my venom & what stops me from being in blossom.

Much like a soldier returning from war, I have come out out on the other side of abuse.
My brain still reacts like there's still explosions, like I'll still be getting punches.
Miscues when someone's going to hurt you, long term, my brain built new neural avenues.
Misused when I was finally saved, the months after, too many flinches & unruly glitches.

My coping mechanism was overuse the medication & use my hands to pull out my hair, over time, up to six inches. 
I knew what I was doing, but then again I didn't, my brain became accustomed to all these new patterns.
I see the demons when my brain turns up it's new devices even though I've already escaped all the dangerous lunges.
In this new mind of mine, alert to danger, panic, anxiety, and constant fear governs.

I'm sorry to have this sentiment & not write a poem more positive today, but I need these words written so that my brain and I can start to reprogram.
There's no diagram, I just have to hope my neural pathways get the telegram that I'm working to change & get out of my mess of passageways, trying to stop bombs by defusing the already damaged goods, let's just hope the soldier inside me comes alive & actually gets back the right fight, flight, or freeze response.