This disease struck me
Like a brick on pavement
Hard

Everything was
Perfect
Then that brick came along
And with the slightest movement
Destroyed everything

“Count it
Perfect it
Measure it
Clean it”
The voices say

Why can’t I let them go?
They keep repeating:

“Count it
Perfect it
Measure it
Clean it”
Why won’t they stop

“Count it
Perfect it
Measure it
Clean it”
I don’t understand

“Count it
Perfect it
Measure it
Clean it”
Someone just HELP me understand

This disease is about
Perfection
But it's the biggest
Imperfection about me

I meticulously scrub every last inch of the clean floor. Then I do it again because two is a lucky number. On to the windows.
The sills demand a toothbrush and dedication. The rugs insist on constant attention. I pick up errant ants in the cupboards.

I search for more dust or dog hair or whatever seems to clog the way, always using the preferred tool for each cleanup at hand.
Same treatment everywhere, every day. Counting and repeating ad nauseam. A compulsion, a genetic twist, a lifetime sentence.

Children of my womb,
Born unto me,
Your every part and emotions are a part of me,
Precious and sensitive.
When you are hurt or wounded,
I bleed inside me,
The pain in your eyes I share with mine,
Praying you will have a better tomorrow.
By now you must have realized,
The reason for my yell,
Is I cannot bear you suffer,
The screams you hear now and then,
Are the anguish of my heart to see you safe and sound.
When you cry on lonely nights,
I respect your wish to be alone,
But, it is my tears I wipe on the pillow clutched tightly in my arms.
Your tears, emptiness and sorrows tear me apart,
I share your triumphs along with your dreams,
Your joy and laughter,
Which you can witness in my smile,
And a proud gleam on my face.
After all I am a mother.
20/2/2020