Obsessive Compulsive Snores

1:33 AM, says the black bar on top of my phone screen.
The blue rays from the CPU keep blinking like crazy
My eyes all hazy
From lack of sleep.
The occasional beep
Of midnight trucks
Pierce my insomniac ears.

My brother’s sobs have turned to snores,
His unstraightened bedsheet waits of course.
What could be worse
Than having to sleep on a bed without fixing the sheet?
What could be worse
Than keeping a book at a different angle from the one beneath it?
What could be worse
Than washing one hand but keeping the other dry?
What could be worse
Than closing your door but not tapping it a second time?
What could be worse
Than getting hurt on just one side of your symmetrical body?
What could be worse
Than putting an unwanted pen mark on your math homework copy?
What could be worse
Than the papers you’d spent ages aligning perfectly being scattered?
What could be worse
Than hearing your sisters say “Stop acting so crazy, it doesn’t matter!”

It’s okay, he’s asleep.
He’ll forget about the bedsheet in the morning.
He’ll have the toothpaste on his brush to worry about
And his sandals to carry about
With just the equal amount of pressure on each feet every time he steps.
And when the food on his plate looks so annoying that he has to ask for another plate
He’ll relinquish the last traces of his memories of tonight’s unfixed bed.
Maybe he’ll scratch his right cheek with his right hand
And then scratch his left cheek with his right hand
And then rub the nails of his left hand across the table
To give them a share of the pleasure
But maybe they’ll get too much
And maybe he’ll have to scratch another facial muscle.
And go on repeating until his muscles are numb from the pangs of equality 
And his nails can spell out tranquility.
It’s okay. It’s fine.
It doesn’t matter.
He’s just crazy.
And one day he’ll realize that.
It will all be fine from then.

1:56 AM, says the black bar on top of my phone screen.
The blue rays from the CPU still blinking like crazy
My brother snores as peacefully as someone without OCD,
Waiting for the next day’s imperfections to align just perfectly.
It’s okay. It’s fine.
One day he’ll stop acting crazy.

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