Sometimes I dream of the psychiatric patient that instead of an eye had a wound.
Put your finger in it, he said.
And I felt nauseous.
He laughed and whispered: Even then you couldn't touch my mind, it is too deep.
I cleaned him holding my breath.
With my nose wrinkled.
(Principle of contagion
it's called, that tendency to believe that the briefest contact, just a
touch, causes a permanent transfer of the sick/dirty/defective, from
one object to another.)
It is not so outlandish; disinfecting his socket made me hate my eyes for seeing so much death.
How disgusting, my god, how disgusting.
How terrible that rubbish is born from within. Like a sticky fountain.
How terrible that the most intimate thing that has happened to him is
that I put my fingers in him and almost, almost, caressed his mind.
Healing is not an act of love.
Healing is an act of justice.
All the filth of the world, all the shit, filling that void in his face.
How frightening to take a peek at a look,
and instead of white tepidness find blood vessels, dry, dead, and cold.
Let him die already, I wished.
And he killed himself.
An overdose of any cheap shit.
He burst along the road.
When the found him, the ants had made of his wound a bed.
His wound converted into a paradise.
Rot has to be sweet, I think, so I do not take sugar.