Writing: Jo Higgs
Another spouting sees my skin call out for a territorially defined follicle drought. Just two hairs tamely testifying their trichotillomania-triggering presence; sitting, slowly growing, slight and subtle to all but this brand newly bristling basket case of a boy. The practical protocol pulls, but panic: the trusty two tongs of traditional tweezers elude the eyes of my fragility being eased into erraticism by the sharp and screaming shards of hair hidden from all but he who houses them. Nails can nearly nab the nippy wee fucks finding refuge on my face, but not nearly enough. Astoundingly aggravated awareness always attacks when tweezing tools take trips to some secret secluded spot, segregated from my maniacal manifestation of madness.
Fuck. Finally found them: rapid release finds me feeling free.