This is an attempt at poetising OCD. Went down the automatic writing route with this one as I don't like to dwell too long in what is, after all, a pretty maudlin place. I'd make a terrible Sylvia Plath. Still, even dark things need an outlet, or they tend to fester. And we've been there before.
The whispered hiss suggests just one more check
And I'll be free to go on my way,
Yet I have been here for ages now
Too rooted to leave, compelled to stay.
I'll comply, and how that digusts me,
My uncoupled logic now utterly askance
As my hand grips and forces the handle
'Could be unlocked, there's always the chance'
It hurts, but I have to be certain
And sharp resistance, the pain in my hand
Is surely the confirmation it seeks,
The vengeful endgame the voice had planned.
I'm tired but it's early, I'm haggard and worn,
There's no more to feel but shame and revulsion
As the voice piles in. I am resigned
To check one more time and sate this compulsion.
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