ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
I want to be perfect. I just want to be perfect. But so much is getting in my way... I hate my ugly body. This horrible skin with all of its imperfections. It's driving me mad.
I look in the mirror and see a blemish on my cheek. It's not quite ready to go yet, but I feel it! I feel it! It's there, and I don't want it to be. I want it gone.
I push at it, trying to get the defect out, but it won't surface. All I managed to accomplish was two deep nail marks in my face. I get frustrated and I scratch at it, trying to get the skin off to open the pore. It bleeds a little bit. I try squeezing again, but nothing. The nail marks break the skin slightly.
I grab a sewing needle. They say not to do this, but I'm desperate. I try to gently tear open the blemish. I really don't want to scar my face, so I have to be careful. But even after that, it won't come out! I scratch vigorously at it until there's a large, bleeding scrape on my cheek. I don't pay much attention to that, for I see the pocket from the bacteria's infection. I try to get it out, but it won't budge! WHY WON'T IT JUST GET OUT OF MY FACE?!
I take my tweezers and try to pull it out, digging even further into the skin. I can't grab it. Eventually the wound is bleeding so much, I give up for now. I press a tissue to stop the bleeding and leave the bathroom.
The next morning, I return to the mirror. There's a big, dark scab where the blemish was, still hiding the infection. I start obsessively searching my face for other imperfections. I found a couple small ones that people probably wouldn't have noticed, but I noticed them. I attack them like I did the one from yesterday. More scrapes, more torn skin, more blood. But there's still the scab from yesterday...
I tear it open to try to clear the infection again. I dig with my nails, then with my tweezers, and then I take the needle and stick it in the pore to try and dig out the pocket. It's bleeding so much, so I try to dab at it with a tissue so I could see what I was doing. The pain never bothers me; I'm too concerned with the battle against my skin.
Giving up again, I have little bits of tissue stuck to each wound to stop the bleeding. I watch television. I idly scratch my arm and feel a bump. Another imperfection. I don't even know what it is. Probably not a blemish. I scratch at it anyway, and it bleeds. I start obsessively searching my body.
I scratch at my back at more blemishes and previous scabs. I inspect my legs and arms, and even my abdomen. I find a spot behind my knee and scratch it off, only to find out it was just a birthmark. I began tearing at more freckles, reopening old scabs, even ones that were nearly healed. I stop after a long while...
To the mirror again the very next day. Reopen the wounds, tear at spots I missed, even on my scalp where not even I could see until I searched thoroughly for them. There's a milia on my eyelid. Those usually have to be removed by a dermatologist. However, I take my needle and dig it off, severely damaging my eyelid.
My neck, shoulder, chest, arms, legs, pelvis, back... covered in scabs... just more imperfections to get rid of... I constantly rip them open to get rid of them... I'm covered in scars and scabs. I try to heal scars with bio oil, but they just don't heal fast enough.
I find myself tearing at my face at night when I'm trying to fall asleep, but doing this keeps me awake. I pick, scrape, dig, peel...
The next day my friend came over. She was horrified at what she saw. I had torn my face off. I kept digging at my arms, back, and anywhere else, taking huge chunks of flesh off my body. More... imperfections... they had to go! THEY HAD TO GO!
My friend tied my hands behind my back and drove me to a hospital as I bled. I struggled, trying to free myself so I could dig at my wounds, but it was no use.
Urgent Care did what they could with the gashes, which they still had to keep me from scratching. After, however, they suggested sending me to an institution. I was put in a straight jacket for the soul purpose of keeping my hands secure.
I'm so ashamed... I'm so horribly scarred... I just wanted to be pretty... just like everyone else...
I look in the mirror and see a blemish on my cheek. It's not quite ready to go yet, but I feel it! I feel it! It's there, and I don't want it to be. I want it gone.
I push at it, trying to get the defect out, but it won't surface. All I managed to accomplish was two deep nail marks in my face. I get frustrated and I scratch at it, trying to get the skin off to open the pore. It bleeds a little bit. I try squeezing again, but nothing. The nail marks break the skin slightly.
I grab a sewing needle. They say not to do this, but I'm desperate. I try to gently tear open the blemish. I really don't want to scar my face, so I have to be careful. But even after that, it won't come out! I scratch vigorously at it until there's a large, bleeding scrape on my cheek. I don't pay much attention to that, for I see the pocket from the bacteria's infection. I try to get it out, but it won't budge! WHY WON'T IT JUST GET OUT OF MY FACE?!
I take my tweezers and try to pull it out, digging even further into the skin. I can't grab it. Eventually the wound is bleeding so much, I give up for now. I press a tissue to stop the bleeding and leave the bathroom.
The next morning, I return to the mirror. There's a big, dark scab where the blemish was, still hiding the infection. I start obsessively searching my face for other imperfections. I found a couple small ones that people probably wouldn't have noticed, but I noticed them. I attack them like I did the one from yesterday. More scrapes, more torn skin, more blood. But there's still the scab from yesterday...
I tear it open to try to clear the infection again. I dig with my nails, then with my tweezers, and then I take the needle and stick it in the pore to try and dig out the pocket. It's bleeding so much, so I try to dab at it with a tissue so I could see what I was doing. The pain never bothers me; I'm too concerned with the battle against my skin.
Giving up again, I have little bits of tissue stuck to each wound to stop the bleeding. I watch television. I idly scratch my arm and feel a bump. Another imperfection. I don't even know what it is. Probably not a blemish. I scratch at it anyway, and it bleeds. I start obsessively searching my body.
I scratch at my back at more blemishes and previous scabs. I inspect my legs and arms, and even my abdomen. I find a spot behind my knee and scratch it off, only to find out it was just a birthmark. I began tearing at more freckles, reopening old scabs, even ones that were nearly healed. I stop after a long while...
To the mirror again the very next day. Reopen the wounds, tear at spots I missed, even on my scalp where not even I could see until I searched thoroughly for them. There's a milia on my eyelid. Those usually have to be removed by a dermatologist. However, I take my needle and dig it off, severely damaging my eyelid.
My neck, shoulder, chest, arms, legs, pelvis, back... covered in scabs... just more imperfections to get rid of... I constantly rip them open to get rid of them... I'm covered in scars and scabs. I try to heal scars with bio oil, but they just don't heal fast enough.
I find myself tearing at my face at night when I'm trying to fall asleep, but doing this keeps me awake. I pick, scrape, dig, peel...
The next day my friend came over. She was horrified at what she saw. I had torn my face off. I kept digging at my arms, back, and anywhere else, taking huge chunks of flesh off my body. More... imperfections... they had to go! THEY HAD TO GO!
My friend tied my hands behind my back and drove me to a hospital as I bled. I struggled, trying to free myself so I could dig at my wounds, but it was no use.
Urgent Care did what they could with the gashes, which they still had to keep me from scratching. After, however, they suggested sending me to an institution. I was put in a straight jacket for the soul purpose of keeping my hands secure.
I'm so ashamed... I'm so horribly scarred... I just wanted to be pretty... just like everyone else...
Literature
Catatonia
She scrawls life line tallies on her wrists in scars
to mark each year passed
and haunts bars looking for the love of strangers.
she finds malt whiskey and vermouth; strange mouths to kiss
she tips them back the way a lover might tip her chinny chin
chin
She whispers slurs and looks into the abyss of gin.
He inhales death with the smoky kisses of cigarettes
injects life paraphrasing echoes of love with hypodermics to keep
the hypothermia of loneliness back
but it creeps and creeps
a slow paralysis
under the windowsill, rain falling bleak on the pane to drip
drip
into her veins
soft dark over the threshold of the doorway to her soul
writi
Literature
Dear self harm,
Dear self harm,
I am writing to thank you for your help over the past few years. You have helped me through a lot of my problems throughout my life. But I'm not sure if I can go on seeing you.
We met that one night a few years back in my bedroom. It was surprising how we just clicked like that. We're perfect for eachother. Whenever I was angry, you could always calm me down. Whenever I was upset, you'd replace my tears. Whenever I needed you, you were always there. You are my best friend. You are my hero. You are my saviour.
But then our relationship started going badly. I began to start using you. I insisted on you being there even whe
Literature
Im not Hungry - Anorexia 2
Fight the hunger,
Push it back –
I'm not hungry.
I'm not hungry.
I'm so fat
They pick on me –
I'll prove them wrong,
I'll get thin.
I'm not hungry.
I'm not hungry.
Must stay top
Of every class –
Make them proud,
Make them pleased
That I'm around.
I'm not hungry.
I'm not hungry.
"Yes, I'm fine!"
Why do I snap?
Why do I shout?
Why do they ask
If I'm ok?
I'm not hungry.
I'm not hungry.
"Look, we're worried…"
Like heck you are!
You just don't want
Competition
When I'm thin
And beautiful.
"Yes mum, I ate my lunch…"
Fingers crossed behind my back.
"Can I have an apple?
I'm darn starved!"
I'm not hungry.
I'm not h
Suggested Collections
this is an exaggerated story of what i do to my skin. obviously, i don't tear my face off or chunks of flesh, but i'm had so many wounds on my face, i kept picking at them to get rid of them. i know it doesn't work that way, but those of you with dermatillomania will know what it's like. when i was fifteen, i finally managed to get the milia off my eyelid. i had it since i was a little kid, but i took a needly and got it. fortunately, unlike the character in this story, i was completely unharmed. however, if you were to see my back... well, let's just say you don't want to see my back.
*sigh* i also have trichotillomania. but... let's not get into that.
*sigh* i also have trichotillomania. but... let's not get into that.
© 2013 - 2024 Reitanna-Seishin
Comments45
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
I have the same issue; although it's not so much my back as my face; I'll see enlarged pores on my face and nose and its like I absolutely HAVE to pick at them, like I can't do anything else until every last pore on my face is clean and free of gunk. This has been going on for years and I've been scared I'll never be able to stop.
Thank you for writing about this though; it definitely helps to know that I am not the only one out there with this issue; and I hope you find a method that'll help you stop picking.