Illusion

 

“ Kills the most germs. “

Brags the label on a bottle,

A defense tower on my desk.

The sword turned into a gel,

Open hands unfold a battlefield,

Skin crests and hairs are shaping the war zone.

“ Kills the most germs.”

This is a serious matter:

most enemies are killed,

like in any war.

Now, I wonder:

What happens with the rest?

Do they surrender?

Where are they taken?

Is there a hidden prison down my guts,

Behind my ears, under my nails?

Where is the perfect geography for a prison,

Is it the same place where I keep my dreams locked?

Is it at the quarters of my unconscious mind?

I had a nightmare, and now I wonder:

Who was behind it?

Did some prisoners escape?

Or is it there a part of me that is dying,

Killed by the escapees of this war?

“ Kills the most germs. “

What about the others?

Are they wandering free?

Jumping from my nose to my umbilicus,

Roaming free of charge, feeding themselves with my cells,

With my emotions and my random thoughts?

“ Kills the most germs.”

I press the squeezer,

The gel jumps into my hand.

I feed myself with the illusion:

That I have saved myself.

Photo via Unspash.