wounded

I like picking my skin. Scratching it. rolling my fingers over it to discover the tiny bumps, the imminent zits, the uneven skin - hell, whatever I can find. When I sense something unusual, I attack immediately. I am relentless, possessed by the uncontrollable urge to take it out, to break through the skin, cut it, scar it, wound myself. When the wound begins to heal, I touch it again, again and again, until I realize that I've wounded myself once more, on that very same spot. It happens everytime, to many spots, such that no wound completely heals, and I am eternally scarred.

I don't know why I like it. It's certainly not pretty. It's quite disgusting, actually. But I can't help myself. I look at the imperfections on my face, my body, everywhere...and I just want to erase them all from my sight. Right. Now. No waiting for medication, no desire to clean my hand, no caution or care for the consequences I already know by heart. Right now it's just me and my skin, battling it out.

So here's what I've learned: I hate pain, except when it's self-inflicted. Then it becomes this twisted story of purging that I seem to enjoy. True, it's not a very healthy way of dealing with one's flaws. Especially when one is actively seeking them out, searching for every little mistake in the tiniest crevices. And then plowing through in the most unforgiving and painful way.

But so far this is it. This is how I treat myself. This is how I hate myself.