A can of tuna


(Initially published in Republicá.)

My eyeballs are red and hot,
hot like a pair of fireballs
blazing inside my sockets.
My mind is boggled
with heavy dose of insanity;
something creeps up and slithers
inside my marrow.
Is it the dying embers of hope?
I do not know.
Is it a quantum of sanity leaping forth
from the vast dungeon of insanity?
I do not know.
One day I feel like it is a point,
dimensionless and stagnant
while the other day, it feels
like the universe in itself,
expanding across its infinite boundaries,
radiating and annihilating.
But why is it so?
I do not know.

My mind—for all I know—
is like a can of tuna,
individual sized, slimy, and unpleasant:
like flattened jelly, dark-red and watery self
like plasma, seeping at the sides of viscous block.
When I try to knock the insanity off my head,
the watery soup smears on my knuckle
and then I slide one finger into it
to the depth of the nail.
The top creases and some of the red fluid slops up over
the jagged lip of the can.
It feels so sickening.
Unpleasantly so.
Like a mad man playing with his own feces.
Red soup and blood
seeps and slumps,
and slithers over two pieces of dead fish
I try to throw it over,
and wash it off in the basin
but it stares back at me
like a bug-eyed monster.
The can of tuna feels like the universe in itself,
with watery soup expanding and radiating and annihilating.

I do not feel like eating.
I do not feel like living.



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