There's popcorn on the ceiling,
a million bajillion clusters that I've spent days trying to count.
In the 1950's these ceilings exploded into popularity.
And until 1977, homeowners blasted asbestos covered popcorn toward the sky, letting mesothelioma fibers fall back to their floor like it was harmless dust.
I take a deep breath, letting the air settle deep in my chest before letting it back out.
My ceiling is probably not made of asbestos.
It's probably styrofoam or some other cheap, paper-based product.
I take another deep breath.
The EPA banned the use of asbestos in these ceilings.
Apparently, inhaled in large quantities, asbestos causes lung disease, lung scarring, and lung cancer.
Another deep, deep breath.
I continue counting the probably not cancer causing popcorn.
I wonder if I would be able to feel the particles swimming in my lungs like fiber glass–thin, delicate, sharp.
I wonder if it would **** me.
I wonder if my family would file a claim like you see on those old commercials screaming,
"If you or a loved one developed mesothelioma you, yes you, could be entitled to compensation."
Or, something like that.
Breathe.
The air tastes funny.
My ceiling is most likely not made of asbestos.
But, I probably wouldn't care if it was.

everyone is so afraid.
they are shakin gand trembli ngand un stable

everyone is so afraid that someone will say it.
they eat their food and kiss their wives
and dot their i's but they are TERRIFIED

everyone is so afraid that someone will point it out.
that there is something wrong with the dinnerware

it cuts at their fingers - white plates turned red
the teapot so far gone that the smell
of chamomile stains the tablecloth
they are stifled - watching in horror as their forks split porcelain to
pieces; and more; and more; and  more  . . .  splintering into obscurity

the china is Cracked. and everyone knows

Why do some women worry so
much about the
outside?
Clean car,
clean dishes,
clean toilet,
clean face, clean little
bill of health,
clean credit rating,
clean dog, clean teeth,
clean floor?
What about the
inside?
The heart, the soul,
the conscience?

Hey, no.
I’m busy cleaning,
cleaning the carpet, the sink,  
the garden.
For God’s sake
what would the neighbors
think?

I have to clean the
tables, the ceilings, your
fingernails, ears and crotch.
And the bed that
we copulate in,
it’s all *****.
*****, *****, *****.
and the mirror…
just look at it.

Spiraling
Thoughts.
They move through my head so
Fast
Its hard to keep up
But then a thought
Flying through the web of my mind
Gets caught
And sticks.
Unwavering.

...

"Did I turn off the stove?"
If I didn't
Fire
If fire
Dead pets
If dead pets
Dead me
If dead me
Pain to those I love.

...

The thoughts hit a wall.
There is a moment of pause.
"Everything is ok, I always turn off the stove."

....

Exhale.
Breathe.
Peace.

...

"But what if I didn't?"
It is back again
Clinging like a sticky-hand.
Fire.
Death.
Pain.
Until I notice
I'm doing it again.
Over
And over
And over again.

Patterns everywhere, but what to foresee?
There’s Innumerable things to compare,
This OCD: a familiar bee, another tree,
If I only had the key,
Could make everyone aware,
I know they would agree

Uneven roads,spilt coffee
How loathsome, how unfair,
All these patterns seem to be.
So many things to see;
And now what’s over there?
And what does it mean to me?

Their meanings flee;
Ignoring every prayer
From this humble devotee.
So now here is my decree:
I’ll renounce, forswear,
Over and over, plea and plea,
‘Til someday it lets its hold from me.

a feeling of numbness

suffering from a disease

too invisible for the eyes to see

a parasitic disease

in which its host

is unable to escape

the confines of this mind

no matter how hard they try

a precious body with a functioning heart and brain

but unable to use them to your gain

a body that never experiences happiness

an abnormal brain given by a God

who apparently conducts experiments on his children

a lingering heaviness in my mind

impossible to be removed

urges that I don't want

every day, hour, minute, second

always in a battle with your own mind

nobody there for you to confide

in


for i just want to be normal.

I feel them inside my head
Thoughts digging pathways into my brain
Repeating our conversation over and over
And over and over again.

Sentences, turned every direction
Up and down, repeatedly
Breaking apart your every word
Like what did you ~really~ mean?

Panic floods my bloodstream
But after only half of your sentence
I have to remember the second piece too
Then I can breathe again.

Irrationality claws at my heart
Doubt and fear suffocate me
But I want to believe you
I want to believe.

But what if my brain is right?
And what if you're wrong?
I pull reality sharply back into focus
As my thoughts tell me I'm crazy.

Inhale peace and exhale doubt
I have to let go of these questions
I love you, I love you, I love you
One day I'll be able to believe you.

Thoughts spiraling, so endlessly
Spinning me in circles until I'm blind
Back and forth and back again
Until I don't know what's real anymore.
My brain whispers lies like sweet nothings
Telling me we'll never be what I need
That I'm dumb to want you this much
That I'll always be nothing real to you.
Sometimes I know the thoughts are lying
We talk about it and I promise I believe you
But the doubts are convincing too
And you can always find the evidence you look for.
I just want my brain to stop and slow down
I sow the seeds of my own misery along synapses
I can't imagine the strain this puts on your heart too
And I never wanted to cause you any pain.
My brain tells me I should just run away
That leaving could be best for you and for me
But I love you more than I've ever known
And running won't solve anything.
This well-worn path runs deep into my soul
Over and over again, in pain and in fear
I know they're all a part of the same problem
And I promise I'm fighting to find a way through this.

obsessive
compulsive
thoughts that don't belong
intrusive
elusive
intrinsically wrong

ocd

unstable
unable
harm your bone and skin
fearful
tearful
tattoos of your sins

ocd
ocd

aggressive
possessive
words not meant but said
irritated
isolated
dreams not gone but dead

ocd
ocd
ocd

White Lily takes her white knuckles to bed
After sweet Lily spends the day locked inside her own head
Little Lily just likes to feel a little silly --
Intoxicated by the weight of words she never even said

Past, present and future
Shoot through the floor
Tying knots around her wrists and
White Lily takes her white knuckles to bed.