In the darkness,
I feel fragile.
I sense the rawness of the cold rain.
I can unwrap my OCD in the dark,
careful to tiptoe, not to trip or let anyone hear the arrogant drip of my
blatantly wrinkled compulsions.
Those impulsive, ever so repulsive, spiraling clusters of neuroses that dampen the air, and fall back into my head,
like some random, raging rainstorm of convulsive teardrops invading the brain,
an existential maelstrom of minutia,
spills of repetitive perfection that get tossed into a dumpster diving for moments that make me feel almost human.
I slap my thigh, get high stretching seven times,
then meditating in the mirror for eleven seconds
about the pimple on my chin, reflecting how strangely benign it must feel
to be free of these obsessive, compulsive thoughts that won’t release me.
It’s such a strange partnership,
Yet, how unimaginable life would be, without worrying repeatedly,
whether I had turned off the gas from the stove,
or if I left the iron on, and I’m nowhere near home,
or if I, knock on wood, should ever let my peanut buttered spoon touch inside the jelly jar, or the curve of my loose lips,
surely, that would be the first sign of the apocalypse.
Words yawn to swallow midnight,
weary stars and moon recline,
as I frantically search for the missing cap from my pen,
obsessive thoughts plague the mind,
unraveled, untied, falling compulsively unbound,
there will be no peace or slumber,
until that runaway cap is found.
In the darkness, I feel fragile.
I sense the rawness of the cold, cruel rain.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
