Whispers of the Soul

OCD

Hands Raw

My hands are raw, chafed by the tide,
Each wash a desperate battle, a frantic slide.
Underneath the faucet's relentless spray,
I scrub away worries that won't fade away.

The soap bubbles rise like ghosts in the air,
Drowning my fears, but they linger with flair.
I lather and rinse, each motion a prayer,
To cleanse my existence, to lighten my care.

Skin turns to parchment, cracked and dry,
As I chase every shadow that threatens to pry.
With every reminder, a cycle repeats,
Each moment consumed, my heart skips its beats.

I scrub at the surface, yet deep in my core,
The anxious thoughts multiply, demanding much more.
"Just one more wash," whispers the voice in my head,
Until hands bleed from battles that feel never-ending, never dead.

I wipe down the counters, the floors, and the chairs,
Each swipe a salve, a moment where care pairs.
But the toll it exacts leaves marks on my skin,
A reminder of battles I constantly spin.

With each act of cleaning, my body pays dear,
As the rawness speaks volumes of unspoken fear.
And the ache in my palms echoes louder than words,
A testament to struggles, a song that disturbs.

Yet I seek solace in rituals that bind,
In the hope that the chaos will ease in my mind.
But the cost of this cleansing is steep and profound,
For every anxiety washed away, a new one is found.

So I stand at the sink, with water and soap,
In this cycle of worry, I grasp at the rope.
And though my hands ache, and the skin splits apart,
Each wash is a struggle, a plea from my heart.

But in the rawness, there's strength to be found,
A flicker of courage where chaos is drowned.
For though hands may be battered, they tell my own tale—
Of fighting for freedom, of seeking to prevail.

So I'll learn to embrace the scars of my fight,
To find beauty in struggle, to step into light.
And though hands are raw from the burdens they bear,
I'll wash away anxiety, one breath, one prayer.