I try to control this urge,

To not lift my hand up to my head.

Waiting for this feeling to submerge,

For if I pull I'll for sure regret.

Can't keep my hands still,

I must find something to do.

It's like my body acts against my will,

Maybe I can pull just a few.

Small calluses line my thumb and finger,

Short, coarse hairs border my hairline.

A feeling always seems to linger,

That I am abnormal and not fine.

My brain tells me I will feel glad,

But only once I pull.

I see the mirror and get mad,

This is such a bunch of bull.

I want my hair to grow beautiful and long,

But my fingertips just can’t resist. 

I feel like I am no longer strong,

My fingers grab a hair and make it twist.

An angry voice tells me to stop,

I clench my other hand into a fist.

Just wanting my fingers to let the hair drop,

I feel the hair come out my head and I get pissed.

This is the reason I hate going to a hair salon,

I feel like an ugly duckling.

All I want is to be a beautiful swan,

Trichotillomania is why I have been struggling.

It’s no easy subject to address,

Since not everyone understands.

I pull my hair when I feel stress,

Explains why on my floor are all those strands.

I stare at the mirror,

And observe and play with my hair.

I become more and more bitter,

For now there are parts on my head that are bare.

I try to hide the bald spot,

And make sure that no one else can see.

Being able to keep hiding the spot is a long shot,

But for now the only one that can know is me.