poetic trichotillomania

My teacher looks at the wrap on my leg

and asks me if I am okay. 

How do I say 

that I remove 

one of my body’s 

protective layers 

until the intense 

   restlessness 

and 

   buzzing 

finally ceases? 

How do I say 

that I use 

   pens

and

   keys

and 

   fingernails 

to dig into my skin,

looking for 

something 

I will never find?

How do I say 

that I make 

myself bleed,

not on purpose, 

but on 

accident as 

I seek for 

something to 

calm my 

nerves?

How do I say 

that no matter 

how much I 

know it is 

   useless

and

   harmful

and 

   outright cruel

I still destroy 

parts of myself 

to gain 

   internal 

and 

   mental relief?

How do I say 

that I count 

the lashes on 

my mirror as 

I pull them out; 

going in increments 

of two because 

oddities make me 

sick to my 

   stomach 

and 

   panicky? 

How do I say 

that even though 

I am medicated

and I have 

   full hands, 

and I am 

   always busy 

I still find time to 

create craters in 

   my legs 

and 

   arms?

How do I say 

that 

  I dig 

and 

  I dig 

and 

  I dig

because I feel that

no- 

I know that

there is something 

In me that 

needs to 

get out soon 

or

something will go 

terribly wrong? 

How do I say

that I think

the reason I 

write poetry 

and

choke on 

metaphors 

is an attempt

to 

  string out

to 

  pull out 

to

  remove 

this thing  

inside of me?

How do I say

that these 

words are like

the hairs 

I dig out of my

wrapped leg,

and 

eventually 

I will find the

right one,

and 

I’m terrified that 

when I do, 

I won’t be 

able to write 

anymore?

The answer is I don’t, and I just tell him 

That I am fine. Isn’t that close enough?