#ocdspiral

It’s not healing. Leave it alone. Leave it— alone.

Something’s in there. I can feel it— you feel it too— don’t say it— say it. Don’t— do.

A sliver. It’s a sliver. Sharp. Small. tender. Don’t think. Don’t think about it. STOP thinking— you’re thinking about it. Stop— stop— STOP.

Distract. Write. Read. Walk. Fuck. Anything— anything but— don’t look— don’t— you looked. I looked. We looked. We were right.

There. Right there. Get it out. Now. Squeeze. Pull. Tear. Cleanse. Scour. MAKE SURE— no infection. It will come back— it always comes back.

I got it. I think I got it. Did I get it? The burn is good— pain means it’s gone. Right? Right. …right?

Don’t touch it. Don’t— do. It won’t heal. It’s not healing.

Delusion

We live in a world of delusion, chasing Tomorrow, escaping today, calling it hope, calling it progress, while suffering quietly stays.

We swear we are fighting for something— a dream, a goal, a someday reward, not knowing if effort means meaning or just another illusion we guard.

Dreams change as life keeps on shifting, the finish line quietly moves, what once felt solid turns vapor, a mirage we’re trained to pursue.

Dragged forward by purpose invented, a direction that looks like a plan, just to feel less lost in the motion, just to say I know where I stand.

But really we’re stuck in repetition, a cycle, a circle, a spin— a spiral of endless obligations, checking the box just to begin.

So let’s live inside of the delusion that everything works out somehow, that everyone gets their ending, their moment, their then, their now.

But what if the ending keeps changing, keeps shifting its shape and its face? What if “happy” is only a costume we give to the life we can’t place?

There is a house inside my chest lit by one stubborn candle— never bright, never gone, just steady enough to make the shadows tell the truth.

I walk its rooms every night.

The peacemaker sits at the long table, sorting silence into neat stacks, trying to convince the air to stop arguing with itself.

The wanderer paces the hallway, restless as a storm that forgot where it was supposed to land. She says she’s fine. She’s lying.

The diplomat leans in the doorway, choosing her words like fragile glass— every syllable a negotiation to keep the world from cracking.

The caretaker is in the kitchen, scrubbing the counters of her own heart until her hands ache. She calls it love. She calls it worth. She calls it survival.

Anger sleeps on the couch— a polite ghost, a held breath, a match never struck until the whole room suddenly burns.

The perfectionist is upstairs, measuring every inch of her life against a ruler carved from old fears. Nothing is straight enough. Nothing is clean enough. Nothing is enough.

In the attic, the rebel kicks at old floorboards, hungry for escape, for freedom, for a future not written by someone else’s trembling hand.

The dreamer sketches constellations on the bedroom ceiling, a thousand better worlds you half-believe you’ll touch someday.

And beneath them all— below the pipes, the beams, the bones of everything— the shadow-child keeps watch. Quiet. Feral. Holding grief older than your name. Holding truths you barely let yourself touch.

But the candle keeps burning.

Not for pity. Not for rescue.

For witness.

For the small, sharp honesty of being a whole house of contradictions and still choosing to stay. Still choosing to walk those rooms, turning toward each voice instead of away.

This is not a tragedy. It’s an architecture.

Rain

I listen to the rain, I listen to the wind, I hear the creaks of wooden boards above. Each drop grows louder, heavier— tap. Tap. Tap.

Until every tap becomes a drumbeat, the wind rising, whistling between trees, pushing stillness into motion with its unseen hands.

And then— just as suddenly— the rain dissolves, the wind exhales its last breath. Stillness. Silence. Nothing left to touch, to hear, to hold.

But if you wait— alone, cold, with water clinging to your skin— the rain will return. As certain, as restless, as the next thought beating at your mind.

Avoidance

Clinically, they call it avoidance, I call it delay, a careful avoidance. I know what I should face, I know what I should do, but I scrub, I fold, I clean — anything to prove I’m busy, I’m moving, I’m not wasting time, because stillness, stillness feels like a crime.

Clean, scrub, fold, fold, scrub, clean, repeat, repeat, repeat — my hands obey, my mind loops, every room a list that never stops, never sleeps.

Scratch the itch, lift the stress, polish the mask, hide the mess. I know the cracks, I know the break, but the mask is easier than the choice I make.

Clean, scrub, fold, fold, scrub, clean, repeat, repeat, repeat — the rhythm hums, the tension drums, my pulse in sync with the tasks I meet.

Stop, focus, list, repeat, new project, fresh defeat. Avoidance, my truest compulsion, my spinning, spinning, endless convulsion.

I watch the storm as if it were a mirror—

dark, untamed, and aching with power.

The sky folds into itself,

a velvet bruise of shadow and light.

The air is fevered—warm yet biting—

a contradiction I crave.

The wind leans close, whispering secrets

that taste like confession and danger.

Clouds prowl above, swelling with hunger,

devouring the horizon in slow, elegant violence.

It is beautiful enough to ruin me.

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

I’m the biggest fake, A mirror cracked down the center I have all this knowledge Ruled by logic A lighthouse with no shore But when the table is turned, I have no self-control, A compass spinning in saltwater

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

After so many years Searching for the answers Searching for whys For whens For where Digging through hours like graves Collecting information like a bookworm devours a library, Eating pages instead of peace

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

I can recite to help others, To advise, to heal others I demand they see, they change, they love themselves, accept themselves See themselves through my rose-colored glasses, Tinted like stained glass in a burning church Always finding their silver lining, Polishing clouds while standing in the storm Always pushing themselves forward

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

I can see my own demons, call them by their names, Tag them like animals behind glass I recognize between them all Based off the claws reaching for my control, Scratching at the door of my ribs I push down my own voice of what to do, Bury the instructions under my tongue How to stop the vicious cycle

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

But yet I am unable to stop them; I allow them to bring my past up— Once defeated experiences Rise like drowned ghosts That just multiply as a mirror showing the truth, A hallway of reflections with no exit