when i get stressed,
i peel the skin
off my fingers.
it keeps my body functioning,
the pain reminds me i'm alive.

it's a filthy habit,
barbaric and disgusting,
but there you go.

my right thumb looks like raw meat right now.
pieces of flesh are glinting,
red with caking blood,
through layers of dried, peeled skin...
and i can't type without feeling my raw flesh
rub against each key of my keyboard,
like scrubbing a wound with a soiled towel.

it's like cutting yourself,
but less romantic and
altogether
less lethal.

when all the world is against you,
when you're just one nerve shy
of either screaming long and loud
like an insane prisoner
or bursting into a sting of tears,
you stifle it all and silently destroy yourself.

it's quiet, self-fulfillng,
and you disturb nobody.

if you peel hard enough,
tenaciously enough,
you withdraw from the chaos around you
and shrink into a little world of your own,
where that small ebbing pain and
a tired mindlessness
are your most faithful and undisappointing
companions.