enough enough enough(untitled: lunatic)

I am sucking on my index finger to keep myself from going back to that bottle of soap soap

soap trying this so called exposure therapy because I can't write unless its perfect

my poems have to be better better better. my flat herbivore teeth sink into the flesh

stretched over my knuckle otherwise I will go back to the soap and I already licked the bottle

clean it was thirty three fluid ounces it feels like I'm going through withdrawals

feels like I'm dying still I'm so dramatic dramatic dramatic too much time alone with myself.

oh please please let me out of this constant cycle. contamination; I'm starting to hate that word.

my hands used to be cracked and bloody and used as a tiger's chew toy, my classmates said I had grandma hands and gave me a bottle of lotion I didn't know how to explain it to them so I laughed, and I keep thinking at least it's not as bad as it was, at least I'm not sleeping on the corner of my bed like a kicked dog again, at least I'm not crying rubbing hand soap on my feet after stepping out of the shower again, at least I can hug my mom again it could be worse worse worse.

apparently I've made progress. intrusive thoughts; I have those Jesus Christ, I am a Narcissist and a pedophile and a rapist and a murderer and a fraud some sorry excuse of a person

sometimes I wish my dog would bite my head off so I wouldn't always be worried fleas ticks lice God

I want to shave my head I am so tired of it, it's all in my head not really I feel it in my chest a disease sprouting from my chest my throat my hands. I am so tired. trying to make everything clean nothing is pure anymore. I'm worshipping a disease. Dad spelt OCD on the fridge when I was diagnosed, that's the only time we've talked about it. I wonder why flies buzz around my body. I feel. it's all I do, I feel like there's always always always something on me jumping crawling tiny mites in my hair in my hair

I wish I was clay so someone could pull off my skin and reshape me into something better, man I miss when I actually enjoyed writing and didn't feel like a failure like I am destroying art I am trying to create it I promise my hands are just weak alien extensions ruining my life please forgive me childhood and books and poets and Dad. I'm tired of temporary relief my finger has been soaking in my saliva for ten minutes exposure therapy exposure therapy exposure therapy still it feels Wrong, I'll delete this or maybe I'll keep it up as a reminder that this is what my poems are starting to look like

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