OCD

These thoughts run through my head.

Stop, I tell myself. They are just thoughts. 

My hands are red and raw from the scorching water

mixed with bubbling soap. 

They tell me to stop, but how can I?

This is a disease of the mind

Nothing that I, myself, can calm

or cease. 

I am trying. I am trying. I am trying. 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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