Tonight's Poet Corner: Obsessive

Obsessive
by Belinda Roddie

I understand that
when you see spots, you imagine
that they're endless polka dots stitched
into a new silken white dress. I know that

some people count scabs like constellations,
view stains as Rorschach tests, finding both new
daydreams and realities in the splotches forming
calligraphy beside already existing cursive text,

and I know that if you squint your eyes perfectly,
the scribbles on a page can form an original
language, especially when you're still at
the proper age to challenge walls and ceilings.

I'm aware that clutter, if organized in piles, can
become skyscrapers rising into outer space,
seeking out new planets constructed from the
same rainbow neon debris. I shape each

bruise and crack and broken spackle in
the contours of my brain, rebuild the worlds
that one part of my neurosis deems, in all
capitals, "PERFECT." But then I upset

your comfortable utopia, and I jam thumbtacks
into photographs so they curve at right angles
on bulletin boards, and I sweep birthday and
Valentine's Day cards off

an otherwise pristine table so I can relive
that same moment in a wedding picture behind
obnoxiously smudged glass; if only I had
remembered to get a shot

of you with me and my family.
If only I had remembered.
If only I had remembered.
If only I had

The ink that forms mosaics
on my hands will fade faster
than stone, and once the nightly showers strip
my face of grime, I feel my canvas go blank.

I understand that when you see spots,
you see the beautiful personality in every
flaw and burst seam, while I repeatedly stab
myself with the same needle as my mind screams

for me to sew together my misshapen collage,
smooth out the lumps and creases, only
to flatten it all out into plain, boring,
tired, spotless gray.