Scratch, scratch, scratch, again the feeling of ants crawling on my skin.
A twitch of the neck, again I have spread myself too thin.
The tags on my clothes become sandpaper and slowly a loss of breath.
Nick, pick, flick, with each intense pull of the skin, I must step away from telling myself it is death.
Self-soothing will not lead to blooming, but the stress continues oozing.
Splash, splash, splash, cool water on my face and some ice on my neck.
Ground, ground, ground, will not let myself feel drowned.
