Pages of my soul

A bad habit

I have a bad habit of picking my skin

At every budding pimple on my chin 

And every time I squeeze too hard or pick too much, it bleeds. 

And you scold me. 

You tell me not to be too harsh and that I've done a misdeed.

If you know, I mustn't rip away at every imperfection,

to pick and claw and pluck and cut, in fear of rejection.

Then why do you hack away at my every flaw

and in the end you leave me feeling raw?

With your words you scratch endlessly at my heart

every critcism, every doubt, tears me apart. 

Picking and scracthing away at my fears

until they bleed and bring me to tears.

The twist in your words, it cuts too deep

leaving scars that make it hard to sleep

Just like my skin, you can't help but pick

But the words you say leave me feeling sick

Now I feel the need to change, to conform 

to be worthy of love, in a different form. 

But as I am, with my overgrown weeds, 

I don't think I'm enough and my soul pleads,

Will you please love me?