Yet I Do Nothing

The reason
I pick at my acne
Until it bleeds
Isn’t a simple one

One
I hate the pressure
Under my outsides
The gnawing ache
Of my swollen pores

Two
When the liquid
the white paste
oozes out of me
I feel relief

Three
It doesn’t matter
How much the meds help
I still get the urge to
Pinch my insides out

Four
I never learned
How to keep myself smooth
At least not as smooth as I would like
Not as smooth as society tells me I should be

Five
It’s not a real problem to me
That my pain makes me feel better
Just like how I did not think
My anxiety was a problem either

But it was
And this might be
Yet I do nothing
But write this poem
And pick at my skin

The Back of My Neck

The Back of My Neck

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