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[spiralsofocd]

I Am, to Please

When one’s purpose was always to care for others— what happens when it’s time to find your own?

Are my hobbies just echoes of someone else’s joy? What stirs me? What sparks me? I don’t know. I’ve never asked.

So many years, so many jobs, so many masks worn smooth by duty, by fear, by love. And when the day ends, and I peel them off— what’s left?

A face blurred like vision without glasses, unfamiliar, half-forgotten.

I have no skills, nothing to shine with pride. I will never lead, never rise, never conquer— except the quiet skill of pleasing others, of keeping them whole, while I remain unseen.

I was raised to believe self-care is selfish, to always feel what others feel, to always serve, to always give.

But what am I when I cannot please? What am I worth when my hands are empty, my efforts unseen?

This purpose does not warm me, does not fill me— it hollows me. Alone, I give. Alone, I ache.

No one tends to me. No one knows how. Not even I.

For I do not know who I am, or what I could be. I simply am— here to please, to serve, to fade.

[spiralsofocd]

Drawn to the Storm

I will always be drawn to the storm— Its power, its pulse, its wild form. The crackle, the fire, the danger that gleams— It lives in my soul, it fuels my dreams.

It burns in me, fierce and whole, A mirror shattered, yet reflects my soul. Only those with the same deep scars Can read the truth written in stars.

I’ve spent long years to walk away, To keep the storm and me at bay. But when it stirs and calls my name, I reach again—I feel the flame.

It feels so right, yet I must flee— The dark is not a home for me. That place where pain and shadow dwell Is not a place I wear so well.

No comfort lies in sorrow’s hue, Though I am wired to walk it through. The storm is not my fate, not now— I fight the pull. I won’t allow.

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Wait.

What the fuck did you do? I’m born to be honest. There was a statement, and I reported— But you weren’t supposed to. It was the truth. But truth can burn. I had to say it. You should’ve stayed silent. I couldn’t— I didn't mean to—

Now I feel it— Feel it unravel— Thread by thread, Word by word.

Wait. Come back. Let me take the words back. Let me rewind. Let me erase. Let me forget. Let me undo.

Must act as if nothing is known. Erase it. Pretend. Lie. Smile. They can’t know. They mustn’t know.

Oh my God, I can’t breathe. Take it back. TAKE IT BACK.

It just came out. I needed to say it. No, you wanted to say it. And in saying it— I believed it more. It felt real. It felt right. It was wrong. It was betrayal. It is true. It is me.

No—it’s weakness. It’s destruction. It was selfish. You’ve ruined everything.

Wait. I still want the words back. I need to erase them— From your mind, from mine— From the air itself.

For you, it means a different world. For you, it is the ultimate betrayal. Letting him in. Him. You let him in. You let him in.

Wait—WAIT— Take it back. Take it all back. Erase it. Un-say it. Undo it.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t—

Each breath, a punishment. Each breath, a reminder. Each breath— Might be my last. Might be my last. Might be your last. Take it back.

[spiralsofocd]

I really like your writing. Your poetry is similar to how my spirals feel. It is beautifully written pain. Thank you.

Thank you. Not everyone understands that pain can be just a beautiful and comforting to us struggling.

[spiralsofocd]

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.

[spiralsofocd]

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.

[spiralsofocd]

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

[spiralsofocd]

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.

[spiralsofocd]

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.

[spiralsofocd]

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.

[spiralsofocd]

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.