Sometimes

I start to pull

my hair out by the roots.

It’s just a little pain,

a tear, a hole forced from my head.

A very small attempt at a trepanning.

And as I sit daydreaming,

I find I’m holding strands

within my palm.

Fine spun threads!

I have to rise,

walk across the room

drop them in the bin.

And as the bin fills

I find I am consumed

with shame.