In a rhythm that rolls like wind over wheat
From wrist to forearm to temple to brow
To twist to tug to pull and then to repeat
A thought vacant cadence. A personal Tao,
My one private way that seeks no convert
To join the search for a shapeless worry,
Some sure conduit to a finite hurt
To twist, tug, pull. Next and on I hurry.
Skin and heart are but two of pain’s layers
Masking them both are my unquestioned tasks
Followed by hope for an answer to prayers
That this stranded tally will be the last.
In the shadow cast from a promise made
Brush through the tangle and weave a tight braid.
Trichotillomania (Hair Pulling Disorder)