Sonnet 312.39 – Tricotillomania

carytids1  Sonnet 312.39



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)

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