It’d be wrong of me to say
that I don’t like the taste of iron on my tongue
from the bites my teeth keep making
Or the hues of red I find escaping from my cuticles
Every time I pick, whenever it may be
Except at night when its worse
and I no longer have the will to fight it
the moth drawn to the flame, over and over
only except of dying — it’s a never ending cycle
that ends with me, alone in guilt
at how the compulsions won’t stop
and that my ‘insanity’ is more normal
then trying to be sane
