OCD Poetry

My Dentist Tells Me He Isn’t OCD by Carson Wolfe

He just likes clean teeth.
Drills the decay twice
before filling. 

I want to ask if he denies
mental illness each time 
he performs a task well, 

like wiping his arse twice 
after taking a shit. 
But the anaesthesia has spread 

to my eyelid, and I can’t speak 
through the appropriation 
of my disorder as an alphabetised 

bookshelf, or westernised Feng Shui.
A hygiene cliché, minimising 
debilitating episodes

to the scraping of rot from my mouth 
after surviving on package sealed food,
because the compulsion to touch
the cutlery exceeded
the need to eat.

During lockdown, Carson (they/them) adopted a cat to live like an eccentric writer, but now spends most of their time salvaging the poems her keyboard paws delete – rather than actually writing them. Surviving work can be found in Fourteen Poems, Stone of Madness Press, and Kissing Dynamite, amongst others.