I don’t trim my nails. I haven’t even filed them recently. I’m sitting here, biting into the corners of my fingernails and slowly tearing them apart. I don’t know why I can’t stop; it’s compulsive and disgusting. I make sure some white is left so I still have hands like a normal, non-anxiety-ridden human being, but they keep getting shorter and shorter as the days pass.
No, I don’t think I’m depressed. Am I? Depression is the lack of being able to feel right? Then no, I’m not depressed. I feel too much actually. I can’t stop being sad. I don’t know how else to explain it other
I've got the wind of ticking,
Dashing across my skin.
Dodging 'round the goose bumps,
Cackling at my whim.
Running for my life to keep,
Racing on towards death.
Waiting for the time to trip,
Grasping at my breath.
I've got the hand of turning,
Tightening up the slack,
I'm running,
Out of thread,
But I'm never looking back.