Wounded animal

One would write about insanity as one talks about headaches, the migraine that is running around the square, a pill in the throat and a healthy meal, it is like being with the flu in the summer and you are the child who has lice in first grade. It's that you have no friends beyond yourself and it sounds like a tragedy to a martyr. But my madness likes shade, the idea of ​​0 excites him and it is the same as two cats is a party and three humans is a funeral. My mind one would enclose it in a germ that feeds on living beings and contaminates everything that it visualizes. Its the one who eats the latest original ideas and it's just like a two-word confession.

It is having a panic attack in a mirror maze and having an echo between the pursuits of your footsteps. 

I know you ask me at night because you fear the answer and that's why you close your eyes while trembling when my fingers start running through your veins. They are dancing and bewitching the words they tell you, about how my mind is the cry of the great depression and has this thirst that nothing pleases it, and is evil to its membrane.

You wanted to know and that's is why you are trying to cover your ears and hoping to deny the way that I describe the nightmares that I build. Where the eyes run down the face and the hands are too slow, where I pray and everyone listens, in which I love you but you die.

The warnings were lost between explaining that multiplications are easier than divisions and there is no point in stopping to bring you peace of mind, it is too late, the bomb is in its final ten seconds. So as I tell you about my ten little Indians, I start with my arms and continue between my heart and the last vowels of my name.

Is that you're grabbing my wrists and yelling at me to stop, but you already have me crying and laughing as I tell you that at half-past three my mind is the end of the world with champagne and Twitter. 

Its that you were trying to understand why I bite my lips and have a crooked smile while watching buildings. You needed to know who I spoke to on Sunday afternoons and what a cemetery is for me. It was that you needed to notice that my disease is the black plague for which people burned cities. It's like a woman on a ship and dead blood for the living.

It is that you must reap what you sow and here you have this brain that likes to plan suicide three years in advance and has this mania of one, two, one, two, while walking because otherwise, it dies.

It is that the sun rises and you are in the corner of the room because nobody is made to know what I’m made of. You were not prepared to know what the broken tic in me means and that you would know what is the equal of my name. It's that you believed in love, that you thought it was child's play and you wanted to feed your curiosity. 

I told you that my mind is from the movies of the seventies with the taste of a dentist. And you can't understand it if you don't know dead tongues and are prepared for sacrifices like going and killing a wounded animal

TA.