I, Ophelia (Part Two--Mysophobia)

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II. Mysophobia

Sure,

now,

when I look to the right

of my bedroom door,

I see the light-switch for what it is--

a light-switch,

inanimate,

with absolutely no potential

to cause me harm.

But, at eleven years old,

a light-switch

is a breeding ground

for plethoras of

girl-hungry microorganisms

waiting to infect me

with some vile, incurable illness.

In the sixth grade,

I wash my hands the

same way I would

eventually come to write poetry--

obsessively,

with reckless abandon

and, most importantly,

with the insatiable desire to escape.

I flick on the light-switch and

I wash my hands

I touch the door handle and

I wash my hands

I just come out of the shower and

I wash my hands

I learn what a blow job is at school one day and

I wash my hands

I think of sex for the first time

(I enjoy it)

and

I wash my hands

(I regret it)

I believe God must be angry with me so

I wash my hands

I wash my hands.

with tedious precaution

so as not to miss

a single palm line

or finger nail.

I wash my hands

until my skin

splits like volcanic rock,

until dew drops of lava

clot across my knuckles,

until I've sacrificed every last

bit of my flesh

in my attempt at purification.

I wash my hands

until it hurts to

eat.

write.

pray.

(But in four years,

I will have stopped

praying altogether,

anyway.)

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Image Source:

Rose water gif (n.d). [image] Available at:http://solarsystem.co.vu/post/151325647141[Accessed 6 Sept. 2018].

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