Forgot to post this here to :D

He dreams of a day when he'll go more than a week of never scratching, never picking. Of a time in the future where he wears a short sleeve and doesn't think about the red splotches marring his skin. A future that never seems to be within reach.

His face has never been clear a day in his life, always sporting something or another that his nails found and decided to get rid of. Clear skin has always been a wish.

It would be one thing if he picked in the same spot, but instead his whole body is a canvas for this disfigurement. His arms bare the pock marks and scabs never given the chance to heal, his legs covered with lesions and scars.

He feasts on his nerves like wolves. His hands find their way back to where they once were, bringing with them the embarrassment of knowing better.

It's even worse when someone who loves him sees him doing it. His mother would tell him "stop picking" while driving to the store. It fills him woth shame and anger, but pulling his hand away doesn't get rid of the compulsion. It's already started, and now the need to pick has grown ten fold.

He hates when he realizes he's doing it but can't seem to get himself to stop. Begging himself to just let go, pull his hand away. He keeps scratching and picking instead.

But it doesn't matter if he stops it. His hands begin to feel antsy, as if the tips of his fingers are filled with boiling water. Heat and movement. He starts picking at a loose thread instead, or scratching at his fingers in a moment of pvp combat.

It's Always better in the winter. The cold air makes him wear sweaters and jackets, causing enough of a barrier that his brain can catch up with his hands before its too late.

The heat of the recently reopened scab, the sticky blood on his finger tips, and the blood soaking through the long sleeve shirt he thought would act as a barrier.

Sometimes he's fine. His skin starts clearing up, and he can feel confident. Other times, he's sitting at dinner and can feel blood running down his arm. He won't even remember scratching, but he'll feel it.

He was 17 when he learned the name if what was wrong with him. Dermatillomania. Obsessive skin picking.

Now his skin is covered in scars, some old and starting to fade, some faint from the beginning, some blotchy, some new and bold against his skin. His fingernails, never staying the same length, are always kept clean for fear of mindlessly introducing an infection into his skin.

Kiyoomi doesn't know when it started. All he knows is that one day, around 10 years old, he scratched himself, and never stopped.