OCD

by Ashley Hardin

I’m sorry if you asked me a question and there was

no reply. I was in the middle of listening 

to my invasive thoughts about a peculiar

conflict in front of me. One-third of my 

grandparents’ circular ottoman was missing its 

light brown leather top straight 

down. This error had started to grow a 

variation of thick and thin white, itchy, and dirty 

strands of fuzz that grew up and at times 

slanted towards the vintage television set. 

The marshmallow section displaced the 

living room, eagerly held my attention, and carried my 

unsolicited thoughts. No rest, though I was tired, 

hazel eyes wide and teary as I tried to forget 

what I could see. Obnoxious strands of uneven 

heights and widths wrapped tightly like a 

narcissist screw and turned itself around my 

orbitofrontal cortex, among other places of my brain 

that I rather not mention—where communication thrived,

and forgiveness had yet to be laid. The screw—

set to turn right—engraved its dominant 

message about the inevitable darker side of 

normalization. Thoughts had to be listened to so 

closure could be established, but I didn’t want to

listen. 

Imagination—a luxury I grappled with next. I tried 

to imagine I covered the non-circular error with a 

brown crayon or brown wrapping paper—the good brand—

or a large pile of lightly roasted coffee grounds, but I 

was a child—a child with an unnerved edge on a 

world that used to swaddle me with modesty. I 

was vulnerable, tired, so, so tired, and that 

salty towards a complex system that fed off 

thoughts as a way to communicate and predict the 

future. I couldn’t question this as my dainty 

mouth went dry because I cared too much about 

objects that had no feelings. 

No tools, no imagination left, I dissociated 

compartments of my uptight brain, so 

future seconds were alright. I thought about the 

chicken nuggets I ate for lunch, how the warm meat 

inflamed my gums due to soggy strands getting stuffed in 

between two teeth I couldn’t wait to lose. I should have 

flossed after the chicken I shouldn’t have eaten—

it was a chicken byproduct—I didn’t listen, but 

it got hard to listen when I couldn’t focus. Hazel 

eyes were a flight risk. 

I found comfort in the stability, 

the non-circular error growing fuzz, so I attempted to 

find compromise in the displaced living room, where my 

attention was held eagerly and my unsolicited thoughts 

welcomed me home. I’m sorry if you asked me a question 

and there was no reply. I couldn’t respond due to the useful 

repetitive thoughts swarming my orbitofrontal cortex, among

other places of my brain that I rather not mention. I tried to 

denounce the trigger. At times, I swore, my mind 

was an angel.        

Whirlwind

by J.C. Henderson

---

Ashley Hardin has a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Journalism and Public Relations from Madonna University. Her poetry will be published in The Journal of Undiscovered Poets and The Closed Eye Open in 2025.

J.C. Henderson was originally a medical biologist with a doctoral degree. In the last decade, her vocation has been dedicated to art and poetry, publishing both artworks and poetry in numerous art and literary magazines. She attended different art school programs and studied with individual artists. She has participated in a number of exhibitions over the past few years and has sold hundreds of her original paintings.