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Voices of OCD Pt. 3

These poems were inspired today, when asked to explain my compulsions. I will Post each Poem individually.

The Voices of OCD I want to you to imagine each of these poems happening at the exact same time simultaneously, as if all at once.

Me / The Fixer / New Problem – "Fragments"

I’m shattered— torn between voices. Spinning. Tornadoes inside my skull, each one louder, sharper, pulling pieces of me away.

I want out. I want silence. I want to scream.

The Fixer slithers in: One more ritual. Just one. Then you’ll be safe. I promise.

I know it’s a lie. I know. But I can’t stop. I reach out— ritual becomes survival.

I move in circles, hoping for stillness.

New Problem sneaks in: But did you miss something? A flaw? A step? You failed. Start over.

I am lost— a ghost in the wind. No peace, no pause.

The storm feeds, and I am its fuel.

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Voices of OCD pt2

These poems were inspired today, when asked to explain my compulsions. I will Post each Poem individually.

The Voices of OCD I want to you to imagine each of these poems happening at the exact same time simultaneously, as if all at once.

OCD Panic – "The Siren Screams"

STOP EVERYTHING. This is life or death. Can’t you feel it crawling? Under your skin? In your lungs? It’s wrong—everything is wrong.

Wash it. Scrub it. Check it— AGAIN.

Don’t listen to Logic. Logic is blind. Logic will get you killed.

Do you want to be the reason? The cause of it all? It will happen. You’ll regret this moment forever.

DO IT. DO IT. DO IT.

I am your only defense. Obey me, or drown in the aftermath.

The storm is truth. I am the storm. You cannot escape me.

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The Voices of OCD

These poems were inspired today, when asked to explain my compulsions. I will Post each Poem individually.

The Voices of OCD I want to you to imagine each of these poems happening at the exact same time simultaneously, as if all at once.

Logic – "I'm Losing You"

Listen to me— Please. This is not real danger— it's wind, just wind. You’re safe—but slipping.

The funnel cloud is in your mind. Don’t chase it. Don’t feed it. You know this storm— the shape of it, the lie of it.

Breathe. Hold still. I am your anchor— but your grip loosens.

Every step you take toward fear pulls you from me. Every ritual builds the storm higher.

Let it pass. Let me pull you back. I am truth. Don’t forget me.

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A deep seeded fear of not being seen or heard

People all around but yet my voice is mute

No matter what I do they see the happy mask

As I scream invisible inside.

not to get all sad for no reason but something nobody tells you about growing up is that a part of you is just a little girl who is yelling ‘please like me please love me please tell me i am good’ at everyone you meet and most of your day is just trying to ignore her

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Threads I Weave

I’m a lantern in a house of smoke, Carrying flames not mine to stoke. A keeper of jars sealed tight with grief, Each one marked fragile, beneath belief.

I carry her hurt, her shame, her name— The weight of fear, the silent blame. I honor the choice she had to make, A path of strength through silent ache. She did what’s best, though torn apart— Even as it broke her heart, Even if it cost her soul, her spark.

He keeps it hidden, locked away, A shadow born of yesterday. A silent weight he’s never revealed— So deep, so dark, it stays concealed.

My own are buried in layers of skin, Each laugh a curtain drawn from within. Only parts are ever on display— A mosaic shattered, tucked away.

Lies and secrets shaped by fear, Ghosts of a past I keep near. Once bound by law, I wore a chain— A hidden truth, a silent shame. Now I’ve vowed, with heart laid bare, Never again in that legal snare. It broke me once—beyond repair.

My pen bleeds truth I dare not speak, To pages where I’m bold, not meek. Three know the face behind the flame, But one unknown still speaks my name.

He reads me like the stars read night, Finding sorrow in the lines I write. And though our truths must not collide, There’s a string between us—soul-tied.

To know me would split the sun, A truth too sharp to be undone. For names hold power, masks protect The world from wreck it won’t expect.

I was raised a statue—stone and gray— Smiling silence, feelings tucked away. But I feel everything: flood and fire— An empath caged in barbed wire.

So I chase the high of the deep unknown, Where no one sees how much I’ve grown. Where rush and ache become disguise— Because crying once meant punished lies.

I wear my masks like sacred skin, Each persona a truth buried in sin. They fit too well, they feel like home— But truth has claws, and hearts are stone.

And maybe omission is the sharpest blade, A silence that will never fade. Yet secrets are threads I hold and weave— Even as they cut, I never leave.

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Sharing one's art

Sharing one’s art is sharing a part of yourself— asking, do you understand? Asking, do you feel it too? So desperately needing someone who does.

If there’s no one to share in the darkness, then don’t offer pity or sorrow— I don’t want your hollow. I want to be seen. I want to be heard. I want to be understood through the silence of art.

But no one’s really listening. They talk over, talk through— never reaching the truth. Never touching the meaning. Never seeing me in the art I’m bleeding.

I feel whole, yet utterly alone— for I’m the only one who finds beauty in this shattered glass. My reflection—splintered— never strikes another soul. No one feels it whole because I am broken in a way only I know.

There’s joy in expressing the worst of me. I show my truth— but my darkness goes unseen, unfelt, because it’s misunderstood.

So here I sit, gazing at the beauty I find in broken images of self— for my heart, my soul, speak through word and wound, where no one dares to look.

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Monica's Voice

Gentle Content Note: This poem explores the inner battle with anxiety, OCD, and compulsive behaviors, including self-harm. Monica represents the intrusive, critical voice of OCD—a relentless, controlling presence that fuels anxiety and compulsions. The poem contains emotionally intense language and may be triggering for those sensitive to mental health struggles. Please read with care and compassion for yourself.

Monica’s Voice

You are no Helen of Troy. Your beauty falls flat. If no one is willing to fight for you, then no one truly cares. You’re not worth the effort.

The common factor is you. You are the fucking problem. You are chaos. You break everything you touch. Worthless. A waste of space.

No one gets you. No one understands. You’re beyond the grasp of reality just a psycho, hurting everyone who comes too close.

You deserve pain. You deserve to suffer. You deserve the worst kind of death— just to balance out the shit you’ve put everyone through.

I want to hurt myself— make the pain inside real, bleed it out, prove to the world what I feel. It’s not real unless it’s visible. I must create the wound.

It’s not that I want pain. It’s that pain silences the noise. Pain gives shape to the fear— to the anxiety that coils through every thought, every flaw beneath my skin.

You’re disgusting. Your flaws, your body—awful. Contaminated.

The compulsion begins. First, the checking. Then the picking. Then scrubbing— until skin peels, raw and red. I must purge the bad, the ugly, the bacteria.

And for a moment— a breath— there’s silence. A flash of stillness. Relief? No. The anxiety swells again. Monica grows louder.

Not yet. Can’t stop. Do it again. Add more steps. More rituals. More pain. Until it feels right. Until she is quiet.

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Untitled

Untitled short scene.

Part 1

Work had been insane. A nonstop barrage of emails, meetings, and deadlines. This call, God, this damn call—had been dragging on for what felt like centuries. His temples ached from the constant ringing voice in his ear, words that had long since stopped meaning anything. He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, trying to shut it out. Just five seconds of silence. Five seconds of peace. He turned away from his desk, hoping that a change in angle might help him refocus. And then he heard something. Soft. Intentional. His eyes snapped open just as the door creaked open slowly, deliberately. Without thinking, he muted the call and said sharply, “I said I’m not to be disturbed.”

She knew he was at his limit. She could see it in his eyes the last time they spoke—tight with stress, distant. Always on. He needed something different today. Something to pull him out of that headspace. So she planned it perfectly. Before approaching his office, she paused to speak to his assistant with a confident smile. “We need a private moment,” she said smoothly. “You can take the rest of the afternoon off.”

As soon as the assistant disappeared, she retrieved her outfit from her bag and quickly changed in the bathroom. A tight, high-waisted pencil skirt—black, short, and sinfully snug. The kind that did nothing to hide her curves and everything to invite his eyes. A sheer white blouse, barely concealing the lacy blue bra beneath it—his favorite color. That cool, glacier blue that reminded her of his eyes. She wore it for him. Her curls were pulled into a messy bun, barely held together, already waiting to be undone. When it fell, it would tumble down her back like a slow tease. She knew exactly what it would do to him. She was already wet just thinking about it.

He sat up straighter when he heard her heels enter the room, but he didn’t turn around. His warning still hung in the air—stern, tired, commanding. But then he caught movement in the reflection of his framed award. Everything in him shifted. It was her. His irritation melted into something darker. Deeper. His eyes locked onto her body, drinking her in like water after a long drought. She didn’t speak. She simply brought a finger to her lips. Shhh…..and then she dropped to her knees.

She crawled toward him slowly, deliberately, every movement calculated. Her back arched, hips swaying, breasts pushed forward—already swollen with anticipation.

Her heels clicked behind her as she continued her hunt in a silent seduction. She looked up through her lashes, her eyes locked on his as she moved closer, like a cat stalking prey—but knowing full well she was the one about to be devoured.

He watched her, every muscle in his body tight with restraint. His cock stirred beneath his slacks as she came closer, as the soft sound of her breath reached him. He wanted to grab her. Pull her into his lap. Ravage her mouth until the world outside this office didn’t exist. But he waited. He wanted to see what her next move would be. And she—she knew exactly what she was doing.

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Unraveled

It doesn’t start with touch. It starts with the tension— that delicious ache that coils low and deep, waiting, begging to be unraveled.

Then you begin. Not all at once. No— you take your time, like you already know I’ll fall apart for you and you want to watch every second of it.

I gasp— not because I mean to, but because your name is ripped from my throat like prayer disguised as profanity.

My body forgets how to stay still. Every nerve stands at attention. My thighs tremble. My skin begs— for more, for less, for everything at once.

And you give it. Slow. Hard. Hungry. A rhythm that doesn’t just claim me— it rewrites me.

After, I can’t stop shaking. My lungs fight for air, but I’m drunk on you— on the memory, on the way your hands never left me, even when they did.

It hurts, but god— the kind of pain I’d beg for again. An ache like wildfire, leaving soft ruin in its wake.

And when I finally curl against you, breath hitching, purring and squirming like the little kitten you tamed, I slip into sleep— messy, marked, and completely undone.

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The Masquerade

Lately, I only feel beautiful when the mask is on.

Tame the wild— smooth every strand of hair, sculpt it into silence. Put in the effort, even if it’s just for the couch. Patch the missing pieces of myself into a flawless smile. No cracks allowed.

Creating the mask is its own kind of war.

Paint today’s face with steady hands— every emotion tucked neatly beneath. They say this face is the real me, the one they remember, the one they praise.

Liner wings the eyes into sharp perfection— blades curving upward, as if I could fly out of here. Lashes, long and reaching, searching for stars I can’t touch. Cheekbones lit like beacons. And lips— lined, shaped, filled with seduction. Irresistible.

A scent follows me like prophecy— it pulls them in, even from far away, Now, the mask is complete. Finally, I’m presentable.

But beneath it all— I'm still just the plain girl. An old shirt, no pants, just underwear and fatigue. Eyes sunken with sleepless nights, legs bare, scars etched like timelines— past, present, and what feels like the future too. No longer perfect. No longer seen.

The hair’s undone, wild or in a messy bun, just like I am.

I know I am beautiful. But it’s hard to believe it when the compliments only come with the costume.

This skin, this undone version— it isn’t desired. Not without the illusion: a flawless face, no lines, no grey, no age. Just the mask I’m supposed to wear.

I’ve learned to avoid the mirror unless she’s looking back— the one I made, not the one I am.

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The Silence Before the Spiral

The tornado starts. It forms quietly at first— a shift in air pressure, a stillness before the pull.

Everyone is around me— my family, friends, my children, myself.

But I’m no longer standing on solid ground. The sky is darkening. They don’t feel it yet— the wind circling, the debris lifting. They only know who I used to be.

I want to let them in. But even as I reach out, I retreat to the eye of it— where silence is truer than words. Where the darkness offers a strange kind of peace.

My closest inner circle— he who loves me deeply, she who knows my heart, those who share my blood— they’ve always known everything. And yet still, I remain silent.

I can’t speak what’s twisting inside me. It coils, stuck in my throat, tight as pressure before the funnel drops.

GUILT. SHAME. DISAPPOINTMENT.

A thousand arguments spin in my mind— faster, louder. But they don’t know. They shout, Speak! My mouth opens— but my voice is drowned by thoughts already flung into the wind. Selfish. Too much. Again?

My body won’t move. My words won’t land. Already misunderstood before they even leave me.

This isn’t new. This storm, this spiral— it’s returned again and again. And like before, no one hears the sirens. Only the echo of generalized empathy— the kind that never anchors, never shelters.

What felt like exposure to me, was nothing to you. Just another ruined moment. Another scene I shattered. But to me…

If I say it again— what will I hear in return? The same script: validation that erases itself, skepticism veiled as love, acceptance with fine print.

My problems. My spirals. My pain.

You’ve known them. You’ve weathered them. You’ve grown numb to the warnings. So why do you stay? Do I keep you safe? Or am I the shelter you run to while I collapse from the inside out?

My mind is a vortex— clouded, cracking with lightning, the pressure dropping fast. And still, I find myself caught in the spiral yet again.

The tornado starts— not with thunder, but in my chest. A flicker, a twist, a subtle unrest.

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When I was Seen

To be seen as I once was seen, in golden light, not in between— those early days, that thrilling run, the dance, the spark, the reckless fun.

We spoke in silence, touched in thought, in feelings neither of us caught. The kind who feel but rarely show, yet somehow then, we seemed to know.

The roots we formed still leave their trace, soft echoes time cannot erase. Though winds have moved the ground below, some seeds remain from long ago.

But colors fade when feelings don’t, and promises that linger—won’t. Still, I recall that sweet unrest, the ache that bloomed inside my chest.

Not every love is meant to stay, some live to light a single day. But oh, how bright that moment shone— when I was seen, and not alone.

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Fact. 1000% percent.

having OCD is so funny because I can promise you that any given point I am having a complex and heated inner dialogue with myself, and I am losing.

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I don’t know who needs to hear this today, but intrusive thoughts are basically your brain’s (sometimes very upsetting) way of saying “If there were two guys on the moon and one of them killed the other with a rock would that be fucked up or what?”

I’ve personally found that adding the “would that be fucked or what?” part in myself really helps put the more disturbing thoughts we sometimes get into perspective. Helps me say “yeah thar sure would be fucked up” and move on with my day.

It’s not a secret desire, it’s not something that only occurs to you because you’re a bad person. It’s just your brain deciding to process the fact that it knows an uncomfortable thing exists in the world by feeding it to you in an absurd “what if” with you as the main character.

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WIP. Moose, my sweet, wild boy. You’re not just a dog—you’re a force, a guardian, something untamed. I forget that sometimes.

How are bite forms made? Where the teeth clamp down, the skin pales—blood drawn back in retreat. A sudden pressure. A warning. The wider the jaws, the larger the ring— a perfect crescent stamped in flesh. It blooms quickly, a burst of pain and color.

First white, then deepens— dark plum at the center, bruising outwards into violet, indigo, edging into sickly greens and fading yellows. A storm of color spreading like spilled ink beneath the skin.

Bruises are strange things— violent in creation, but quietly beautiful. They speak in shades of impact and time. Bright when fresh, then softer, heavier— until they fade, like memories you try to forget but feel in your bones.

And when the mark stays— the bite, the shape of it, clear as a signature— you see what could’ve been. The size of it.

The force it took. The knowing: One snap. One second. It could’ve been over.

But it wasn’t.

He stopped. It was defense, not fury. A reflex, not rage. He was hurting, and I was near. I was always near. That’s what I do. Stand close, even when I shouldn’t.

When I look into his golden eyes, there’s no hate. No intention. Just instinct. He didn’t even squeeze. Just flinched at the world, and I was caught in it.

My love for him runs deeper than fear— but still, I wonder Where is the line? When does devotion become denial? Who draws the boundary? Who decides what’s too much?

Is it me?

Because I can take it. The bruise. The bite. The aftermath. I always have.

But what about them? The ones who see, who feel the ripples of my choices. No matter what I choose— I’m failing someone.

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The Hunger of the Beast

You have been warned— the beast is insatiable. With every sip, she grows bolder, slipping from grasp, harder to hold, a shadow cloaked in desire.

She is no woman. She is succubus— born of hunger, breathing need. Pleasure is her pulse. Craving is her creed.

Each mind-tingling spark, each brush of breath, doesn’t sate her— it stokes her. Not stronger… but starving.

Starving for more. More of what bends her, breaks her, bares her— tames her.

She coils in fury, wrapped tight in anxious want. The higher the ache, the harder the war. Dominance dances like heat in the dark. She must be claimed. But not by many— only one will do.

The one who sees her not as chaos, but as calling. The one who answers what even she dares not ask.

Until then, the beast stirs, unsatisfied. Untouched. Unfed.

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The Beauty in Broken

Sharing my art is baring my soul, A piece of myself to make me feel whole. A whisper, a question, a silent plea— Do you feel it too, or is it just me?

I don’t want pity, don’t offer regret, I want understanding—not to forget. Not sorrowful nods or glances that stray, But someone who hears what I’m trying to say.

They talk and they talk, but never they see The meaning beneath what it’s like to be me. The silence is loud, the echoes are sharp, And no one can hear the ache in my art.

I smile, yet I’m hollow, a ghost in the light, Finding joy in the pain I reveal when I write. For my glass is shattered in ways none can know, And still I find beauty where others won’t go.

My sketches, my verses, my tears on a page— They dance with my demons, they scream in their cage. I show you my darkness, my deepest of scars— But it’s met with blank stares, like I’m trapped behind bars.

So here I remain with the pieces I find, Broken reflections that mirror my mind. And though no one listens, no voices reply— My heart speaks in rhythm, and still, I try.