The first time I saw her,
Everything in my head went quiet.
All the tics, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.
When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you donât really get quiet moments.
Even in bed, Iâm thinking:
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips,
Or the eyelash on her cheekâ
the eyelash on her cheekâ
the eyelash on her cheek.
I knew I had to talk to her.
I asked her out six times. In thirty seconds.
She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.
On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating or fucking talking to her, but she loved it.
She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times, or twenty-four times if it was Wednesday.
She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely locked the door eighteen times.
Iâd always watch her mouth when she talkedâ
when she talkedâ
when she talkedâ
when she talked
when she talked.
When she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
At night, sheâd lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
Sheâd close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.
Some mornings Iâd start kissing her goodbye but sheâd just leave because I was making her late for work.
When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking.
When she said she loved me, her mouth was a straight line.
She told me that I was taking up too much of her time.
Last week she started sleeping at her motherâs place.
She told me that she shouldnât have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but how can it be a mistake that I donât have to wash my hands after I touch her?
Love is not a mistake, and itâs killing me that she can run away from this and I just canât.
I canât go out and find someone new because I always think of her.
Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars.
And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel.
How she turns shower knobs like sheâs opening a safe.
How she blows out candlesâ
blows out candlesâ
blows out candlesâ
blows out candlesâ
blows out candlesâ
blows out.
Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.
I canât breathe because he only kisses her once â he doesnât care if itâs perfect.
I want her back so bad.
I leave the door unlocked.
I leave the lights on.
janainaart
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