There is a man, behind my nose, holding a valve, flooding me and trying to escape. His feet are pressing on my nose and his back against my brain. Every minute or so he'll scratch my eyes with some extensions of his hands. Extra-long hands, with extra-long fingers, equipped with extra-long nails.
There is a man who drags me down. Sloshing around, pulling on my skin, sitting on my bones and organs and blood vessels. When the other isn't scratching, poking, blowing on my eyes, this one is sitting on them. He places stones on them, fills them with puss. He is quick to make me slow.
There is a man who makes me well again, who puts it right. Some scientists with chemicals and formulas, powders and whatnot. Tablets wrapped in paper, bubbles trapped in water. I don't know where he is and I probably never will, but I owe him a lot.
There is a man who is me. But who wants to hear about that?
No comments:
Post a Comment