i’m a perfectionist.
i control things because it’s the only thing i have real power over —
i fluff the pillows before and after i sit on the couch
i refold my blanket at least ten times a day
i sweep the entire floor every time i see a single piece of dirt
i move the perfume bottle one inch forward because there is only one acceptable position
i fold my used clothes before putting them in the laundry
i align my papers and folders before working
and when i sense a slight deviation to this order,
i feel uneasy
i feel bothered
and i won’t stop feeling this way until i fix it — i have to fix it.
i create my own little world, wherever i go.
this little world is perfect, safe, and simple.
but once the outside sneaks its way in, it is lost.
even while i’m writing this, i want to throw my laptop across the room for the way these words sound. they don’t flow. they don’t sound right. i’m a perfectionist, and this has to be right. this has to be right.