All the Notes I'll Never Leave

Lifestyle- A Slam Poem

I have it all under control.
Its only this four more times.
And that seven.
Its only a few more flicks of the light,
A few more circles back to the door-
To check once again that I sealed myself in as tightly as possible.
I lock the door but in truth my demons are already inside.

My nightly routine is only 20 steps long.

Only.

Its only check the door-
Check the door-
Check the door.
Wash my face-
Wash my face-
The germs that make up my skin.
Wash it all away.
Wash away the burden until my skin rings raw and I swear I could tear through my fragile bindings with the single drag of a nail.
Underneath the water my forearms sting-
For the scratches my fingers carve compulsively into them.
And the stings turn to burns as I run the water hotter-
Hotter-
HOTTER-
For if I do not feel the burn of the water I will feel a burn of a different kind-
And though it makes, admittedly, very little sense even in my mind-
The imaginary fire and the water are all but the same.

I do not doubt the connection anymore-
Not since I was the child waving to the graveyards for fear of dying have I questioned the strings that hold me together.

I have held on by a thread and, unknowingly, tightened my own noose.

It is the worst kind of murder as I peel away at my own skin- you see- my thumbs bear the marks of years past and of anxieties present.
For if I do not tear at myself something else will.

Moments later I sit statue-still,
For if I do not hold myself there I know what will-
The Anxiety,
The monster that lies not under my bed,
But in it.
It lays beside me while I sleep and disturbs my dreams with it's tossing and turning.
Anxiety-
The food of my mistress-
My OCD-
My obsessive compulsions-
My everything.
Because it is not a quirk-
It's a lifestyle.