Cut Me Open (an hour with OCD)

Thu, 04/26/2018 - 21:42 -- Arlea

Why is the floor 
suddenly 
made out of 
little bits of him, and her and them and 
why is it so bad 
to step on that bit: 
makes me SICK to my inner bits,
makes me shake 
sweat and hate.

 

Hear, I dispise,
loath, abominate these eyes 
that blindly see all the insides: 
the bits in the dark, 
that, exposed- unleash, 
CRIES that silently rip at my ears. 
You're not meant to look 
at the underside 
of flesh: 
especially, 
if they're 
still 
alive.

 

Can't look, won't look.
Can't eat, won't eat.
Can't breathe, won't-     we 
                                       have 
                                       a
                                       problem
                                       here. 

 

O, the simplicity
of this perfect cruelty.  

 

This phenomenon of nature: 
the space between things, not having much weight,
in it's righteous wrongness, has learnt to create 
a confusing
deluding
disgusting new game: 
get it right, 
get it right: 
got it wrong, 
GOT it wrong... 
how much longer?!
I try. I fail. I try. They die. I fail. The outcome: Must die. 
MUST hurt. MUST bleed. Must learn, to leave, 
it alone: on my own, I managed to make
a hundred, a thousand, a million mistakes. 
Can't take it back: Can't make it right. 
One thing to do: don't cry, just sit tight, 
And try, and try, 
a few more times 
maybe 
tomorrow 
you'll 
get 
it 
right.

 

Ah, silence! 
a rare visitor, but welcome. 
A tearful smile as anxiety
gives way to depression. 
Crushing, but empty- 
empty of the need-to's. 
No better, no worse, just a change of pitch. 
To lowness and quiet, I've made the switch 
from panic, from horror, from crushed, silent shouts: 
I'm no longer waiting for someone to come, 
cut me open,
and take everything out.  

 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Guide that inspired this poem: 

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