Wicked

It’s an impulse that drives me when I’m bored or in pain.

A terrible impulse that I can not contain.

The more I resist the longer it strings me along

Like an addict

Searching,

And going insane.

I do not enjoy it;

There’s no pleasure in this game.

Just comfortable numbness

That too subsides

Leaving nothing but terrible shame.

The problem is difficult to explain.

It’s a secret very well hidden,

Carefully guarded by masks of clothes, cosmetics, and excuses.

Few people know its name.

Scars and blood act as hangovers-

Painful evidence that the urge won’t subside.