I don't remember, I can't remember, the last time my hands were soft.

My once healthy cuticles now lay mute, cowering and bleeding in their nailbeds,
abused by days of being drowned, scalded in hot water.

My hands have dried, have lost all will to touch,
knowing that touching will only be punished by another mindless cycle.

They refuse to touch.

Water, Lysol, Soap are the faithful allies; germs are the enemy in this 10 year war. The tactic never fails, Napoleon would be proud.
The faucet spews out acid; I scrub and scrub... and scrub, my hands cry softly; I'm breaking down inside, but don't let the germs know that.

Kills 99.9%?
No pity for that 0.1%, there will be no white flags: my mantra.

The battle starts at 7:45 each morning and ends at midnight sharp when the commander goes into R.E.M.

In the morning; when the tortured soul returns from a night of roaming, it drags along with it the rusted shackles of my disorder.