My Story

I run my fingers through my hair and feel that excruciating pain.
I broke down and picked them, chewed them, and murdered them.
At this point it isn't even worth having nails - all they cause is pain.
They are a temptation, an outlet of nervous boredom.
The callouses in my palms are torn.
I can barely grip a pencil without wincing.
How? Anxiety.
When it takes over, some might get hot, sweaty, even stinky,
But I freeze, I shake, but my hands always find a way to pick at themselves.
They say the eyes are the gateway to the soul - it's lovely, isn't it?
The hands are the second gateway.
Look at my hands - they don't seem too bad.
But you can tell how someone lives by looking at them.
Their life story is right in front of you, you just have to look.

~Ann Marie