Trichotillomania

by Dorothy Dickinson

It felt good to pull. Like slipping out of a pair
of tight stockings or watching a match catch
flame, the relief inside me building the way
water pressure does behind a worn-down dam
until my fingers, wrist, and mouth would work
themselves up into an addictive tandem. Like
sneezing or breathing, it was a need, a command,
to explore the tendrils, to taste the self, to bring
each hair, soft and slippery as a newborn bear
cub, to my tongue.

And in the mornings before school, my
mother would sweep a comb across the remnants
of my curls to hide the baldness that spread, like
compulsive constellations, against my scalp