Paper Tiger

I have memories of him before I even knew his name.
He lingered, faceless, in my mind’s line of sight.
Like a smudge on a lens, he was always there,
Not quite in the way enough to care.

His always-presence made me confuse him for myself.
His voice was like mine, his tone — like my own.
His made-up ultimatums would circle in my head
And my only choice was to listen.

I counted the letters in my name —
Spell, count, repeat.
I emphasized my consonants
To satisfy my tongue.
I cracked my neck and clicked my jaw
And touched every wall to feed my palms.
And yet, with all my duties done,
His grip only grew stronger.

I grew up a slave to him.
He built his home in my brain
And settled into my name.
My peace of mind
Came from his piece of mine
And if I ever said he hurt me
He’d make me count the ways.

His blaring commands
Became whispers in my ear.
His grip on me weakened
But he still held my hand.
There was no rhyme or reason
To his fleeting demand,
And I think I might not
Ever understand.

He made me feel clever —
My awareness was honed.
Sometimes I’m glad
I didn’t grow up alone.

But if OCD should find me again,
Tie his string around my neck and
Move his hand to make me dance,
I’d gladly stuff his throat with his own sterile rope.