Until I was fourteen I felt fine--
Good, great, and better than
I ever knew I could feel because in the moment,
You cannot feel fine.
But when I was fourteen,
I began to pick, pluck, and peck
At my own being until I was small.
Still, I cannot remember being fourteen.
The marks of my bird-self
Stuck against my own forehead,
So I hid--from my mamma, from my friends--
I hid from everyone, and I hid from myself.
And my inner voice screamed, “Sophia,
Who can hide their trichotillomania
Through such inverted egomania?
Why are you dying, Sophia?”
I was lost, but dug my way out,
Back into the wind I despised,
To the sky I missed,
Until I was out, out, out.
And I was not free;
I never had to be.
But now I could cope,
And to cope set me free.