Pathological Grooming

I sit behind the desk, legs
crossed in a hunched over kind
of way, in a way I know
is ruining
my hips and back, in a way
I fall into automatically.
With a touch
of nervous energy, or agitation
I rake fingers through my beard,
pinching, pulling, subdividing
as if I can separate them all
into single strands that
do not touch
but have their own space,
their own air. But I pull
too hard, too often
and the follicles surrender, one
at a time, two at a time,
and I do not know
what to do. They are fine
and wiry, soft and multicolored,
and I put them in mouth, pretend
they are floss. But this is not
a pleasant feeling, this is
a mistake. I cast the hairs
instead to the floor, wondering
how many I can pluck before
I have a bare spot, a barren
patch, a desert
in the forest.