People like to talk about the “good” OCD.
The one that means they’ll always come home to a squeaky-clean stove and like every speck of
dust they like leave behind will be cleaned before it like hits the ground.
Like they have a live-in maid, like, okay?
People also forget the part
where it’s a mental illness. Okay.
It’s the one that makes me disappear
inside myself.
The one where I’m driving
and I’m stuck
and I’m still stuck
and I’m still stuck
(And someone flips me off)
I’m still stuck
Still stuck
Still stuck
Still stuck
Stuck.
And the people who have to like stick with me, like, every time I pace the floor and my heart’s
going and the carpet’s going all flat and it feels like I am going to die.
Until at some point I hurt myself. Until my tongue is raw. My thumbnails have turned my fingers
red. Until my feet are calloused white. And red.
I’m stuck.
Camara Wallace is originally from Wisconsin and moved to Indiana to pursue her MFA in Creative Writing. She enjoys crocheting, videogames, and spontaneous adventures. She believes there is art to be found everywhere, especially in the random things people drop in the environment. New discoveries lead to new inspirations.