It’s Routine

The door cut into the wall swings open in a silent cry 

I peel my eyelids open and see it's shut but still push and pry 

Some things are clean, and others are dirty 

Not a speck of filth lays on the skin of those I’ve labeled so overtly 

It eats at my brain like acid eats at the food I don't eat 

It’s not the need to keep everything perfectly neat 

It’s the sense of connection of things I have no reason to believe 

and the feeling of messing things up and ensuring they leave 

It’s a horrid feeling centered in my brain 

It’s a burning consistency, a deep bellowing pain 

It’s irrevocable as much as it's healing 

Often I have to force my eyes to keep on the ceiling 

If they drift, I pull myself from the happy trance 

and wring myself out for the scheduled dance 

It’s routine so it's perfect 

It’s routine so it's clean 

And even though it's aching and bleeding 

feeding the wound the salt while it’s begging and pleading 

while it burns and worsens and aches 

the satisfaction fuels me as my skin further breaks 

And every time I ignore the whispering 

I feel the wound begin blistering 

but I peel her open and let her breathe 

because I can’t suffocate her to save me