The line between “in” and “sane”
is soft to the touch.
you grasp it, and it feels
like the worms that hide beneath your pillow.
you hear it,
through your bedroom wall
thumping against cold paint
that has gone warm
because you keep trying to unhear it.
you taste it,
and it tastes like bile at the back of a throat.
you smell it,
and it smells like decay, and a rotting sandwich
on a warm February morning,
stuck between heavy breath, and two hills.
you see it,
and it looks.
like the claws behind your eyelids,
the peering eyes dotting the walls,
the blood between your fingers,
death ringing the bell,
and your own reflection on the mirror.
______
TEXT:
HANAA MANSOURI
SAUDI ARABIA