My OCD

What is OCD? 

Is it going through your house to make sure everything's clean? 

Is it scrubbing your countertops to give them a nice sheen? 

No. 

It's not Obsessive Cleaning Disorder. 

No. 

It's Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. 

Everything is a pattern that swirls through my head. 

It's so repetitive that it sometimes makes me wish I were dead. 

Every step I take comes with a "1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4," 

Or a "Left, right, left, right, left, right" until I reach the door. 

Every move I make has to be made with such precision, 

Like I've been given some sort of important mission. 

Everytime my brain finds quiet, 

There comes a sound to end it. 

Ticka-ticka, ticka-ticka, ticka-ticka, ticka-ticka 

Bum Bum Bum, Bum Bum Bum, Bum Bum Bum, 

And it never stops. 

It just never stops. 

My skin. 

Oh, my poor skin. 

Once perfect, with small freckles like stars, 

Now riddled with an endless number of scars. 

Skin ruined by years and months of picking and scratching. 

The marks reminding me of what's wrong with me and snacthing me, 

Snatching me from the time before my disorder took me, 

From the time where I could color outside the lines and not care, 

From the time I could misspell words and not lose any hair over it. 

I want to walk without being afraid to step on a crack. 

I want to be done with bad memories and not have to be forced back. 

I want to kiss my partner and not worry about if I did it right or not. 

I want to go about my day and not have to stop. 

Stop because my brain felt that I did something wrong. 

Stop because, now that I've noticed it, I can't go on. 

I wish I was joking. 

I wish that all I've told you was a lie. 

But it's not. 

It's what I have to live with. 

It's me. 

It's my OCD.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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