A penny for your thoughts. Thinking about your girlfriend? Thinking about what to ask for dinner? Thinking about dawn clutching you? I see your arm, tattooed and strong, the tendons that harden just enough to let you grab the bottle through the bars. Your eyes are normal, not fierce, not naive, not good, nor bad, only childish and of a common blue. “Do not make contact”, they teach you at the preparatory course, “do not personalize,” said the psychologist. Will you piss on you tomorrow? Will I feel the smell of your and my armpits mingle in the hallway?
There will be people beyond the glass, people motivated by hate, people torn by grief. I do not hate you, you are my work.
So, tomorrow, in the corridor, I shall think of the girl that you burned alive, I’ll think of when she held out her arms - as witnesses said - and called “help me”, while you threw the petrol at her. I shall ask, again and again, whether she has screamed, cried and suffered. I’ll ask it in your cyanotic face, and shake the straps on the cot. But when the plunger starts, and the syringes drop one by one, I will be like you, I’ll be the man that burns the child. I wish that I have no thoughts tonight, I wish that I do not dream. I wish you will not stay etched forever in my heart. Above all, I wish I would not ask if, tomorrow morning, when you’re dead, I’ll still be alive.
Patrizia Poli
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