By Aditi Dhar Choudhury
Water droplets fall nonstop DISABLED
The clock whirs faster than I had thought
Blood trickles down my fingers, as a grim reminder
Of the monster, that grows even stronger in winters.
Like your worst nightmare playing on repeat
Feed the doubt and doubt the feed
I feel an ever-itching curiosity
Every day is made up of qualms
Minutes slip out of my palms
OCD is a thief – stealing from today for a past unlived
Like a maze with no escape – a trap grotesque
For, OCD is like driving a car with no brakes.
Locked up inside the four walls, like an inmate
Drowning in the waves of guilt, shame and hate
My crime? Silence, they say
Judgement feels like a war that I cannot evade
I have sinned. I have saved. I have sinners to save
I am enslaved to the voices in my head, as they become the noose around my neck
And watch me suffocate, growing tighter with every breath I take
I am made to pay for others’ sins with my blood
For I am the chosen one, they acclaim in unison.
OCD is a liar too, chanting cacophonies that are not true
OCD is the master of trickery, cunning and smooth- where all lies count as true
A court trial without proof, everything I say is declared a ruse
Now I only talk with witnesses in sight.
OCD is a con artist – a monster dressed up in a suit
Like a parasite, fear is its root and compulsions are its food
OCD is a diary of others’ biggest gashes, that reads itself until sleep
Bereaved, my love still flows in directions unknown
This silly heart knows not how to shut that door
I am scared, scarred, seared and starved.
Lack of order and control, and a yawning hole made me
A pitiable over-achiever scoring everything except love
For, I am a mere puppet and I take orders from Above
Before I proceed, I must check the rule book, lest eternal damnation is upon me
A complex cobweb of thoughts, it often feels like my head is exploding
I do not enjoy this, but what choices does the chosen one have?
OCD is a bully
I soaked in my bullies’ venom; now I feel heavy, yet so empty
They twisted the whole narrative, where I am them and they are me
But they did not stop there
But if I am the evil incarnate, why are all these scars on me and not on my victims?
The blood on my hands, mine; the blood on their hands, also mine
But hey, stay with me, because we are about to set ourselves free.