Jour 5

The warring country

I am a warring country

At peace with the idea that

the rebels are knocking at my door 

Every time I take a shower

Every time I place my head on a pillow 

Every time I wash my face and close those eyes

And every time I have to stop breathing

and listen to their fists that rebound on my only exit

I contemplate the large windows or the hammer or perhaps the mop stick

Anything that will offer me a second chance 

to escape

to survive

to laugh in their faces

I feel trapped by the rebels since they camp outside my flat

Waving their mesh flag and throwing crocs all over the stairs

And every morning I unlock the door

and the place is vacant, silent

No one is waiting for me

The rebels are asleep in my head

They will wait and return the following night

I’m a warring country

As the dusk falls 


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