Perhaps tomorrow,
I will stop having this disease,
known as Trichotillomania.
Then,
I would have blonde little arm hairs that you always touched,
and I could bat my eyelashes when pretty boys walk by.
There would be no more yelling with my mom
over a pair of tweezers that have gone missing.
“I NEED THEM,” I cry.
I need them to get rid of that microscopic hair behind my ear,
along with 43 others.
Instead of plucking out my hairs one by one,
I could learn something new,
Or actually pay attention in writing class.
One thing I wouldn’t do,
Is cover my naked eyelids with pounds of black,
and bangs.
One thing I would do,
Is stare into your eyes,
and embrace your stare right back.
There would be no more
“What happened to your eyelashes? Oh my god, they’re gone!”
No red patches of irritated skin from where i pluck
And pluck,
And pluck.
I would not have to wear band-aids,
For those times when the hair would not come out,
and I cut off my skin.
The word razor would have meaning again,
And rather than staying up until 3:52AM,
Picking out every single potential leg hair,
I would sleep soundly to the softness of my newly shaven legs.
How lucky am I,
To be one of the .05% of the world with this Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?
As I have written this poem,
79 arm hairs have lost their life.
Destroyed by their own creator.

But, sadly,
It is not tomorrow,
Nor will tomorrow be any different than the agonizing today.
I must conclude,
For, my arm is bleeding in about 9 different places.