OCD

Sydney Jackson

 

I place my browning Good Will bag on my kitchen counter

feeling too tired to make dinner knowing that I would have to spend at least two hours

scrubbing every blanched crevice of the kitchen before and after I eat.

I turn off the lights to my bedroom

on off

on off

on off

watching the LED sun rise and fall until my eyes feel heavy,

like there small clumps of lead in my corneas falling forward,

until I’m sure that the light is off properly.

I slip into the long awaited breath.

Finally,

I may rest.

I dream about the day when I can touch my crush’s hands

and I don’t have to wash mine,

because instead of an Iraq warzone, my head will burst into a field of daisies.

Instead of feeling germs crawl up my hands, searching for a skin cracked entrance,

I will feel my heart beat pulsing in my finger tips from their electric touch.

Instead of rubbing my cracked, red raw hands with Germ X 99.9% hand sanitizer

99.9%

99.9%

99.9%

My desertified hands will bloom into the most precious of silks

because each of their soothing touches is like a butterfly kiss on my anxiety,

easing my tensed muscles from the empty promise.

I wait for the day when I can leave my, our, bedroom door unlocked.

Did I lock the door?

Did I lock the door?

Did I lock the door?