insides

“you don’t have ocd”

my best friend tells me,

looking into my eyes.

my chest burns hot.

she sees my bed made

to agonizing perfection

while my insides

stay tucked

and so well hidden.

my thoughts that swirl

and tell me “check again”

are anything but visible

to those who aren’t in them.

we don’t speak for days

but later she explains

how people often say “i have ocd”

when they like things

to be straight

or maybe

to look a certain way.

“i understand,” i say,

“i get what you mean.”

but as i look down

my mutilated cuticles

begin to bleed.