worms

Content Notes: dermatillomania (skin picking disorder), compulsions, trypophobia (fear of irregular small holes), intrusive thoughts? self-harm-ish? parasites? idfk

There is a black hole in the center of my face. I always knew it was there, behind the fleshy canvas that pretends to be me. Hiding in the pores and pimples, peeking out underneath the hair and follicles, waiting to be dug up.

My hands are covered in blood, my mirror is stained in puss and dead skin. Through the spots, I lock onto my next target and squeeze. It hurts and I cry but I can’t stop, not until I hear the sound of ripping skin. Not until the tiny white worm emerges and lays dead on my fingernail. Finally uncovered, it suffocates in the fresh air. It can only survive when it’s enclosed by flesh. Not just by flesh - my flesh. I try to stop when it starts bleeding, but I’m always scared that there is a second worm, burrowed even deeper. Growing even bigger.

“Mitesser” - “with eater”. It eats me and I feed it.

Zits, flakes, pimples, blackheads, scabs - I was never able to stop the impulse to pick at my skin. It was always framed as a personal failure, a character flaw, something shameful and dirty. I tried hiding it with clothes or hair or bandages or band aids or makeup, but it was always there. Underneath. Inside.

There is a black hole in the center of my brain. I feel its gravity tugging at me, stretching my thoughts, drawing me in. I’m sorry I wasn’t listening, my mind is being consumed. The coils and wrinkles of my brain unravel and re-organize towards one thing. I tug on my hair and try not to think about it. I stretch my skin and try not to think about it. I bite my cheek until I taste blood and try not to think about it. Fuck, I’m thinking about it.

I want to peel my skin and pop it like bubble wrap.

Hours spent sitting on the floor in front of the mirror. Hours staring at my image, but not seeing myself. Only the countless tiny holes, homes of thousand tiny worms and the thing that shines through underneath them. I don’t know if I try to reach it or escape from it. Sometimes I add a hole - I take a needle to my face and apply pressure until I feel the skin giving way and the metal sinks in. I refuse to use a razor blade, but my hands itch with the need to feel the smooth metal and I imagine myself simply cutting away every bump and hill and tiny crater to unearth a perfectly smooth layer.

There is a black hole. It’s framed by open wounds and glistening, inflamed flesh. It’s slowly growing, spreading and I’m afraid it will break me apart.