• Prose

    Ghosts don’t always come in the human form

    Do you know the feeling of coldness and death on your neck that sneaks up on you surprisingly, always behind you, one anxiety closer to you? The feeling when your skin shiver for a moment or two. You can feel it, even now, always whispering and lurking. But, when it comes, it grabs you by the neck and forces you to scream something you never dared to say out loud. What’s that power you are giving to the body without a face, hands without bones, skin without a layer, breath without living? To whom do you give yourself to when you think you are in the hands of the ghosts…

  • Poetry

    Always in the center of attention, dedicated to herself

    They compare you to a caricature. To a harlot who wears the darkness like a lace that’s hidden under a dress. They can’t stand you or understand you. The ones to which your appearance is too much. Seductive and proud. True to yourself. Always in the center of attention. Never giving it to anyone. Irresistible and talkative. Constantly present. Even when you leave the room. But they can’t look at you like art, those who don’t see the ugly side of you. It’s understandable. Art doesn’t have to be perfect. And somehow, you are art to everyone. You catch everyone with your eyelashes, everyone who imagines you naked, you know…

  • Poetry

    Only pain can make a writer to let off its voice

    I checked my conscience, counted my errors, one by one, or what’s left of them, such recklessly corrects by itself. And what I saw was nothing; the bones of a poet long decomposed, ending up lying under a hill from which I pushed my conscience. I guess, at a certain point, it was too heavy to hold. I took my boots and my shovel, the one with whom I also buried the part of myself who once believed he could choose quality, that he has to throw out the quantity of the equation. I started digging up my bones, just enough to upset them. Surely, a lesser crime than to…