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I pick at my skin too, and yank on my hair.
If I catch myself I rub my hands on my jeans and rub my feet hard on the carpet. That seems to help let the emotions out. They get trapped somehow... That's what it feels like anyway...
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'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
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