Trichotillomania by Yarn and Lace.

I had a sense of souls and songs

That we were on the edge

Of something; twisting and pulling

It exhumes you.

Follicles gape like barren rabbit holes.

The weight of her chin presses on your shoulder,

It drags you down or digs you up.


I did not know there was rope.


Invisible railroads tied to the cotton of your clothes,

Tapered ends fraying with new growth.


The bare burrow lays open, expelled and abjected,

A consummate cord runs from the pit of your stomach,

Pulls every artery downwards, tight as guitar strings,

Resisting the strum of strands, the pluck, the pick

For weeks, for months, for days.


We were on the edge of the something?


My hair grows like twine over my paper collarbone,

Burying its roots to where my neck meets my head;

Where my heart reaches my mind.


A ribbon bows, a billowed branch grows.

Eyelashes and eyebrow stencils shower your cheeks.

Broken hairs and blunt ends seethe and seep.

The weight of her chin presses on your shoulder,

It pulls you down and picks you up.


And I am that empty follicle-

I am that empty edge, drawing in

I am the string, the string,

The string

Of something.


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