My fingers intertwined, becoming lost in the red forest of my hair.
I traced my eyebrows,each hair stabbing my finger
Like sleeping beauty's spindle, I succumbed to the temptation
For I was cursed, Trichotillomania.
The word rolls off the tongue into the back of society's mind.
What's that? Is that a real thing?
Beautiful red curtains drew back to unveil, a broken child.
The theater gasps, no one would have ever expected it.
Trichotillomania
Each hair was slightly shorter, slightly out of place
The pull made me feel something.
When I cried, my eyes simply leaked.
But behind those curtains, I was perfect
The other students saw a doll.
A different type of Barbie depending on the day.
My achievements in school, sports, and art created the facade of a human being.
A very convincing facade.
The nerve endings in my bodies died just as my emotions did. As the hair disappeared so did the feeling.
I spent more time destroying my body than I did loving life, I wasted so much time.
The quiet wars always last the longest. And I spent hours battling against myself.
I never ending war that could not possibly have a winner.
Just Stop!
One day, I realized.
My fingers curled around the velvet fabric of the curtain, and I peaked out.
My future, my hope, was there to guide me from the darkness.
I believed my fate was to burn in the dismay of my disorder,
the minute I learned how strong I was
That the person behind the curtain was nothing to be ashamed of
I would not lose
My fingers intertwined in music, in science, in love.
The word never leaves my lips.
Despite how dangerously tempting it might sound,
Trichotillomania