Head heavy
Chest empty
Brain swimming endlessly
Stomach churning
Throat burning
This broken heart is destiny
Spiraled thoughts
My mind is taut
The OCD attacks fully
These stupid lies
Waste so much time
As if you'd ever think of me

I can't stand myself. I'm scared that if I let myself think, I'll spiral so far down that I'll never come back up for air. I don't want to be crazy. I don't. I don't want visions from God. I don't want to see the cameras, check the locked door six more times, shake when the tires veer too close to the curb. I don't want to scream every time I see my reflection blink. I don't want to see my reflection blink. How do I convince myself that I still have time to build a life worth living when I lose myself every day in my delusions? Will I one day stop returning to reality? Will I still have time to build a life worth living if I don't? Do I live in the rot, let it consume me and wait to forget, or do I make something of myself, just to lose it the next time I have an episode? I lose hours talking to myself. I lose myself in the hours in between. And I'm terrified to lose everything. I religiously keep receipts and old packaging, mementos of every average Tuesday evening, because what if what if what if? What if I reach thirty and do not remember being twenty two? What if this is all I have to remember that I had a life before I lost it? What if I don't reach thirty and this collection of memories is the only thing left of me? Does a person's potential die when their mind begins to lie, or when they begin to believe it? I don't know if I have psychotic episodes anymore. It's more like episodes of lucidity to break up my average day of hiding from the NSA or my landlord or my neighbor or the ghosts or the devil or God or my mother or myself. Will I ever be a real person? If I build a life worth living, will I have my mind long enough to settle into it? I look to the future and there's a fog I can't quite see through. I'm afraid when I get there, that the past will look the same.

I am transfixed
Held in place by chains of anxiety
I have gouged their hooks deep into my chest
As if their restraint could keep me safe
Believing the lies that they whisper
That beauty can still grow in a life without risk
But healing has taught me well
Not to trust sermons built from trauma
I can see this trap I've built myself into
And I ask the Universe to guide me through it

May I remove these hooks from my heart
Dislodge ice-hot metal from burning flesh

May the air rush through these wounds
A fresh breath, painful and promising

May I feel the emptiness in freefall
As the universe guides me into the unknown

May these holes built of loss and longing
Transform into refuge for peace and calm

I know that a life in chains isn't living
As I know letting go requires faith

May I find the courage to break away from painful familiarity
And to fall into the terrifying freedom of oblivion

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’m sure 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.