I can't stop digging up my skin,
I mean, I have to do it,
until my body bleeds from
thirty bloody pits across my body,
my shirt's stained, and
my fingernails are caked brown
with the dead skin.

What I look for are pimples,
hard, painful blemishes, mostly
dug up like a tree root, but,
sometimes, I find one, and I
squeeze it, until the pressure bursts
it through my skin, and it feels so good
that I'll squeeze it again and
again, trying to relive that feeling,
but, by then, it just hurts, it's gone already,
and it doesn't even matter,
I have to do it, and the worst part is
I forget every time that it's gone,
because, while picking at my skin,
my mind is too free to care.