Obsession Compulsive Disorder-
One of my many demons.
I wash,
I check,
I count,
Always in multiples of 19.
My mind is never silent.
My thoughts race-
I can never keep them organized.
But that night I met him,
My mind went silent.
The number 19
did not cross my mind once.
As I laid there,
Resting my head on his shoulder,
His arm in my lap,
I traced my fingers
Over the colorful ink
That covered his skin.
I did not once try to count
The tiny crosses or gold coins
That were intertwined with a wave.
As he held my hand
Late in the night,
I thought only of the roughness of his fingertips,
Calloused by years of guitar playing.
I did not think of the germs
that were being transferred
onto my skin.
The next morning,
as we laid there,
tangled in each other's arms,
I didn't think that maybe the door was unlocked
or maybe someone forgot to turn off the oven.
I did not feel the need to repeatedly check.
When he left,
I tried not to cry,
knowing that I
would most likely never see him again.
When he left,
I sat in my room
and thought about how incredible
those 18 hours we spent together were.
When he left,
I tore myself to bits,
because our encounter
was one hour short
of 19.
Short ****** poem that I'm writing at 1 am in the middle of an episode.
