I wish I knew the answer.

I wish I could just stop.

I can't, I just can't.

I feel like a freak, a hideous person.

Spending hours on end searching for that one hair.

That one perfect strand of hair.

When I do find it, that one perfect hair,

The brief moment of accomplishment fills me.

But ends all too quickly.

The damage is done; the sink is full of hair.

One quick minute of pulling turns into hours.

The tweezers I've secretly bought, are tainted with blood.

When I see myself, I just cry.

My hands feel for the hair I long to have,

But can never keep.

The bald patches are a constant reminder of the sick,

Disgusting cycle I am trapped in.

Eleven years gone by,

How many more are to come?

I am swallowed in this cycle; my own hell.

I just can't stop pulling my hair out.

I can't, I just can't.

The amount of shame I feel grows more and more.

Constantly having to hide myself under wings and headbands.

All for what though?

That brief accomplishment of finding that one perfect hair.

The feel of it across my lips and skin makes me feel good.

I can't escape this cycle; this sick game.

I want to stop, I long to find a cure.

But, once again, I can't. I just can't stop.

All for that brief accomplishment of finding that one perfect hair.