Stress, sorrow, nerves,

Everything triggers it,

The desperate need

To tear myself apart.

A tiny flake of skin,

Or a bit of broken nail

Will all lead to

Tearing myself apart.

Rip, rip, rip,

Making claw-marks down my fingers.

They're raw and bloody, but I still can't stop

Tearing myself apart.

"It's just a bad habit,

You'll get over it," they said.

But they don't know the ecstasy

Of tearing myself apart.

Some said it was just a phase,

But what phase lasts from four to fourteen?

I don't think I could ever stop

Tearing myself apart.

The threat of infections cannot deter me,

I've had a few, for sure.

And if one kills me, then at least I'll stop

Tearing myself apart.

A/N: This poem was written pretty quickly and I didn't really give it much structure and rhymes, so I hope it's OK. I'd like to add that this poem is real, but my feelings are exaggerated for effect. This is a difficult subject for me to write about, and not what I expected to be posting when I joined FP. I didn't realise it, but this problem is quite widely-spread among people of all ages. If you see someone who does or is starting to pick their fingers, lips ect then PLEASE talk to them about it. It is a form of self-harm and can lead to serious infections like septicaemia. OK, I'm rambling now. Bye! 3