Cut Me Open (an hour with OCD)

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.