"I must have OCD".

Because you like the way

Your pens look when they're lined

By their colour and height.

But you don't know the half

Or even a quarter

Of the insomnia

Keeping you trapped in

Wondering if you'll die

Because you didn't look

Enough times at the door.

OCD is violence.

The fear of who I am

That I might be evil

Because my mind tells me

That if I pass a girl

I might want to kill her.

So I have to count things

To make the thoughts leave

For a glimmer of peace

At the expense of my

Broken and picked at skin.

Yet another symptom

That the world does not know.

"I must have OCD".

Because you're neat and clean.

But you don't have those thoughts

The ones that keep you up

The ones that make you cry.

You never wash your hands

Until the skin peels off

And you never break down

Because you are convinced

You are a cursed monster.

I wish I had the thing

That people like to think

Is what OCD is.

That kind of quirky trait.

Instead of the one that

Makes me want to kill

Myself.