I never knew this is how it feels.

It’s not cutting. It’s ripping.

They don’t shear me — they tear my hair out, fistful by fistful.

Screaming doesn’t help. They just laugh harder.

My scalp burns. My skin bleeds.

They hold me down with cold metal hooks, not even trying to be gentle.

One yanks while another tugs — like I’m some broken doll they want to unravel.

They say it’s for cleanliness. For order. For control.

But I know better. This isn’t maintenance. It’s punishment.

I feel their breath on the back of my neck when they lean in to grab more.

Sometimes they laugh. Sometimes they hum.

I think that’s worse than the pain — the casualness of it all.

Blood runs into my eyes, but I’m not allowed to blink.

The collar shocks me if I flinch, if I twitch, if I dare to move.

There’s no mercy here. Only routine violence and the dull rhythm of ripping.

I want to run, but the collar tightens. I can’t even flinch.

Every scream is swallowed by the walls — thick, padded, and deaf.

I dream of silence, of numbness, of wind brushing through unbroken fur.

I dream of hands that touch but don’t take.

I want it to stop. I want to disappear.