This Is What it Feels Like
The joy of OCD
A poem
The joy of OCD
My mind is a factory of recursive torment,
assembly lines cranking out existential dread,
innovation teams dreaming up
fresh anxieties to fixate upon.
Every breath I inhale gets caught
in the looping machinery,
stale air circulating through phobic filters
until I’m gasping on particulate panic.
My hands can’t stop sorting, straightening,
clicking relays in exact sequence
as if inputting the code to defuse
the bomb strapped to my ribcage.
I check, recheck, check again
that the iron is unplugged,
the windows are locked,
no errant ember awaits
to incinerate our lives.
At 3 am I’m still pacing the halls, haunted
by the what-if apparitions who whisper
that my crimes against perfection
have crafted new shrapnel for fate’s landmines.
There is no lounging in indolence
when the drill sergeants of doubt
demand constant, high-alert vigilance.
Every blink risks missing the tripwire.
I can’t shut off this mental manufacture
catalysing doomsday prosthetics,
locking, loading, reloading compulsions
in a ceaseless warring against entropy’s crush.
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