Hands raw; cracked and bleeding

An undesirable illness that has left me pleading

Why did this have to happen to me?

A disease so quaint, yet so easy to see.

Strangers can decipher my tics and fears

They take a mere guess at reasons for my tears

They are always right, because it is so easy to tell

My repetition and counting is merely a

Glimpse of this hell

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Rules my every move

My life is confined

with no way to prove

To prove I am not lying

My sickness is real; it is rooted-deep down in the way that I feel

It is not physical, you cannot touch this curse

but it has ruined my life, so don’t tell me it could be worse

I know I could be dying

But I am not lying

I say this illness has ruined me for good

I can’t live the life a normal girl should

My days consists of clicking locks and flipping light switches

Scratching my hand so deep

I’ve had to get stitches

I know you cannot understand

I know that is it confusing

But do not treat me like I am acting

Or this is something I am choosing

I don’t know why on Tuesday morning’s

I have to hit myself thirty-seven times

My bruises might be ugly consequences

But they are not heinous crimes

My OCD has become a part of me

That is something I am learning to accept

Do not ask me about my bruises; just assume I am inept.

I know it looks strange

As I walk down the hall

People can’t help but wonder, did she really get that from a fall?

I beg you not to spread rumors and tell your catty lies

Bruises fade and rumors end but

OCD never dies