OCD and Drink and Drive

It’s pedal to the metal right now.

Fuck, next time I’d better

put my foot down, keep everything settled

because now my stomach lurches

as we take another curve too fast, too fast.

It’s just hard fighting OCD compulsion.

Where’s the line between safety and compassion?

You’ve had too many glasses, weaving down the road

and I’m clutching my door, braced against the load

of guilt and self reproach, for not knowing better.

So you want to stay clean?

I should’ve disinfected the passenger side.

So you can’t help ordering more wine?

I should’ve made sure you felt safe to ride

without driving, without jacking my anxiety

up just past heart hammering, thoughts yammering, hands scrambling.

Because I don’t know what’s worse:

looking up to see we’re hanging half out of our lane

or killing you slowly by degrees.

You’re not good to drive, my dear,

and I don’t know what’s worse:

starting a screaming fight out in the cold, or letting you.