and it never rains but it pours

Teen And Up Audiences | No Archive Warnings Apply | No Fandom

Other | for meownacridone | 205 words | 2024-06-15 | Personal Poetry

Phobias, Hypochondria, Rhyme, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder

Let me tell you what I'm worried about (but it won't stop the rain).

I like the word 'proclivity' - four syllables all slicing together - but I don't like people's proclivities (I've heard some jack off to feet). I don't like eating melted cheese, I don't like seeing people's feet; I make a thousand judgements, one for every folk I meet.

I've been cantankerous and moody - in other words, problemancorous, broody. Always pretending that I am honorable, discerning and discriminatory. Because you must, because you ought, to have a reason when you're caught.

A hypochondriac is no hypocrite, they're consistent through and through. I have to be clean, with feet never seen. I have to be fragiler than you.

I have to prove (I have to be): I have to have solely vulnerability.

No moral neutrality, only absolutionist's mentality. Perfect fatality is a full-on ability - not modesty or decorum but general sterility.

And then you find that you're enjoying nothing. All for others and each interaction gutting. Change is unjustifiable, but so is staying the same. Both action and inaction take the same stagnant frame.

What is my proclivity? What do I want?

I don't want to be dirty. I don't want to put on a front.

Unfortunately, you can't clothe yourself if all you're doing is covering your ass.