I often pick at my lips.
The skin is full of creases and imperfections, all the little almost-non-existent wrinkles are causing me trouble.
So I pick at them.
I blimish them more, trying to get rid of the spots and hills.
One day, I picked at it so hard that I managed to pull a thick-ish tab of skin off of them.
I tried to suddenly pull at it, in a sideways direction, hoping it would rip from the pressure.
No.
It only got worse. Now the little skin tab elongated, and left a red mark on my left cheek.
Terrified, I wonder and look at the end my hand was holding. Such shame to complicate the situation.
I weave the skin string between my fingers, and try to pull at it in a downwards direction.
Trouble arises more, as the skin makes an almost perfect 90° angle and proceeds to go down to the middle of my throat.
Done. That's enough. I'm not having it anymore. I take a pair of scissors and cut the tab, or rather string, as close to my skin as possible.
"it will heal."
I say to myself.
"it will dissappear"
I lied to myself.
The little almost-non-existent little skin pick is bothering me again.
Damn it, why do I have such desire for perfection. I should learn to leave it be, but the fact that it's not uniform is bothering me.
I pull and I pull, until the string forms again, and travels almost every area of my body.
It proceeds to go deeper and deeper, layers of my flesh are slowly disappearing off my body, and slowly making this red yarn ball besides me.
I wish I could stop but I can't.
I have an obsession with picking at my imperfections.
And even when all my organs fall on the floor and my blood stains the fluffy carpet, I will not give up at pulling it.
From little things, big destructive problems arise. I created the problem, and I am going to end it.
