Plucked

Until I was fourteen I felt fine--

Good, great, and better than

I ever knew I could feel because in the moment,

You cannot feel fine.

 

But when I was fourteen,

I began to pick, pluck, and peck

At my own being until I was small.

Still, I cannot remember being fourteen.

 

The marks of my bird-self

Stuck against my own forehead,

So I hid--from my mamma, from my friends--

I hid from everyone, and I hid from myself.

 

And my inner voice screamed, “Sophia,

Who can hide their trichotillomania

Through such inverted egomania?

Why are you dying, Sophia?”

 

I was lost, but dug my way out,

Back into the wind I despised,

To the sky I missed,

Until I was out, out, out.

 

And I was not free;

I never had to be.

But now I could cope,

And to cope set me free.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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