Dermatillomania

Quick note before starting this poem:

I have suffered with this condition since I was little. There was never a point in time that I can think of, where I didn't have an open cut on my body from scratching, or from peeling open a scab. I even used to scratch while I slept; my mom would have to put socks on my hands to stop me from scratching myself raw. I wrote this poem as a sort of awareness piece a while back, but I think that it fits perfectly with the theme for this month!

Also, the picture of the birch tree above was also taken by me! I took it after I wrote this poem, and later noticed how perfectly this image fit with the words. Without further adieu, let's get to the poem!

A tree stands tall in the middle of a meadow

But with its bark already weak from the months of rain it was too easy to strip it bare

The incessant peck, peck, peck, pecking of the birds above drilled into its bone, peeling the skin away from its muscles

Dogs scraped at the base (scritch scratch, scritch scratch), exposing the white underneath

Fawns rub their antlers up and down, and up and down as the bark falls to the ground

Past lovers carve love poems with knives

The tree is covered in scars

The bark will never be the same

A guy stands tall in the middle of his room

His hands moving in a morbid rhythm as his nails claw into his skin

Scratching, scratching

His skin peels away, exposing the red and white underneath

Oh how patriotic his skin looks as he picks and scratches and peels

But oh how ugly it looks when his arms, legs, stomach, and back are polka-dotted with ugly brown spots

Yet and still he picks

And picks

And pick pick pick pick picks until there is nothing left to strip

Until there is nothing left

Until all you can see is the white meat underneath his skin

But the tree stands tall

Its root still firmly planted in the ground

Its leaves on the naked branches are damaged, but intact

They think of it as inspirational

He thinks of it as a torture method as he peels himself painfully dripping blood on the floor thinking that if he just keeps scratching and picking and peeling that he might eventually disappear

And so a tree stands tall in the middle of his bedroom

The bark that is his skin is already weak from the months of rain

And so he scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches and scratches

Until there is nothing left but a bare tree