The right to rant against good intentions

words are hideous
in the vacuum of illness —
a perversion making holes in
the blanket, letting in the cold —
where is the comfort in your
curiosity, in your need to flatter
your own ignorance, where
is solace in knowing of your
pain and the miracles of your
neighbours, or worse, the plight
of those who didn’t listen to you

I know the best doctor, you say
or ask if I have tried this cure
or that, I wish you were joking
I wish I could wish you away
but you have more in reserve:
you will be fine, you tell me,
and then the magic words,
don’t worry, you will be yourself
in a few days. I wonder when

you leave here or hang up
the phone, if you will change
into your demonic form
again, your tongue bloated
with lies, your eyes foaming
with blood. I wrap the silence
closer now and make up
stories about apothecaries
and vials of poison. Just like
the other one in which, in
the end, everyone just died.