By Melanie Lefebvre

 

OCD is not a meme.

It’s 3 letters that should be seen,

for the reality

of what can feel like tragedy.

 

“I’m so OCD.”

 

Self-proclamations knock me to my knees.

An injustice to the torment,

the terrorizing dread.

You don’t recognize its breadth.

 

“I’m so OCD.”

 

Said with such glee,

thrown on like an accessory.

 

While there’s me,

an uninterrupted factory,

custom orders of fear and guilt,

stitched together like a quilt.

 

That’s my accessory.

 

Let’s make a trade.

Maybe then you’ll be swayed,

and realize the adjective needs to be slayed.

 

Try it on for size,

think of all that dies.

Try on being a pawn,

think of everything that could go wrong.

Wrap my quilt around you,

let it concoct its brew.

 

Breathe in the suffocation,

exhale the damnation.

The castration

 

of hope.

 

A slippery slope.

Am I out of your scope?

 

“I’m so OCD.”

 

Is it still your choice accessory?