I knew it was bad when my fingernails were ringed with red as I ran them over ribbons and excused myself from confetti cake to make them redder.
my head was burning a sparkling candle burning my hands were yearning a spazzing sticking yearning
my family was singing a muffled stifling singing my ears were ringing a loud ear-piercing ringing
sing ring sting stop stop stop my scalp is stinging
Nothing was clear until my fingernails were red and coated with pieces of my head: rubbed raw and picked clean You’re telling me this is something you haven’t seen?
It doesn’t make sense because: I don’t put pencils in a perfect pristine line I don’t count my cheerios before I can dine I can turn the lights on and off just fine but my fingernails are red and apparently that’s a sign.
I can tell you where every single pinprick lives and spreads fire down my scalp into my brain How it tells me your math homework can wait save me or you’ll go insane
My nails are short but still red My brain is intact but still missing its head
Oh, how I could See the Disorder in a demented disturbed decision to forfeit my favorite vanilla cake for blood
stop stop stop, i’m begging you, brain
you can’t stop; you know you need pain leave me alone, and you’ll go insane.
I'm not entirely here I'm trapped somewere Living half aware Hanging between the realities Sitting in a room A waiting room Yellow and warm Tense and eternal Safe but never ending Reality twisted Overactive imagination There is no door But I can leave at any time Only one way Find my inner peace
the blind is broken on the back door where I try the handle maybe one two three four times before bed my foot treads wear a furrow into carpet pile patrolling by the mile a circuit I navigate from door to window and back again checking checking my doorbell's camera eye spies on the street outside intruder alerts on my phone warn of incoming...... something all so I can complete a nights sleep with one ear open tossing turning I have covered all eventualities except the Bogeyman in my head under the bed
thought enters. & repeats, & repeats, & repeats, & repeats, & repeats, until another comes to take its place, filling up the cluttered space inside my mind. a hoarder's den of memories i don't wish to find, & others lost to passing time.
i'm not much of a poem writer but i think it could be a good outlet.
In a world full of deadlines and assignments, I often wonder if I am getting credit for my life. Did I pass the exam because I didn't want to die today? Am I succeeding for inhabiting a level state of consciousness? Will I be penalized for the fatigue or the anxious habits, The inevitable compulsions? Do they see below my skin where the turmoil lays? Are my bones enough to hold me up under the weight Of my perfectionism and pressure for success? Am I too slow or different in a world that demands I exist in a system? Am I enough in the course of Planet Earth? Is who I am what they want, And does it matter? Is there extra credit for taking a shower and complying with medication? Professor, did I achieve an A?
"It's just a thought." "It's just an image." But still I make the demanded pilgrimage. A triple lock. A double check, Compulsive look under the bed. Oh, how strange! Silly me! Yet, I go. I must repeat. Therapist says I have OCD.