“Why Do I Pick”

Why do I pick?

I can’t control the urge,

the movement of my arm

rising up to the crown of my head,

gliding through to find a lush strand,

searching for the answer,

but it's in the palm of my hand.

I always pick.

I know how to find the outlier,

Whether its difficult

or easy.

I never stop.

The satisfaction will never let me go.

I know

I should stop.

But how?

It feels impossible now.

It becomes the only thing I can think about,

and I doubt.

I ask

“Am I OK?”,

“Am I alright?”

I find the answer like I always do.

No I am not,

and it makes me sick,

but now I know why I pick.