why is this disease so destructive? why can't i sleep, eat, breathe, act normally? why does everything become so much harder?
i'm telling you, the worst is when your boyfriend runs his hand through your hair only to find a twisted handful of hair caught in between his fingers. dylan always asks me if i'm comfortable, if he's hurting me, if i'm breathing okay. the wreckage this disease leaves me with...twisted braids of free-falling orange strands, bruises the size of baseballs, and having to take a breather from the fireworks i see when he kisses me.
i combed through my hair tonight and wept as i looked at the hair on the floor around me. i feel like a cancer patient. i never realized how much meaning something as simple as hair holds.
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