• Poetry

    Split up before and after our impulses

    In desperation, we lie, we deceive sensibilities, we’re losing fairly, bluffing only with the existence in the darkness that surrounds us, as if it swallows us with the eyes with a scalpel which hangs on the lower eyelids. The space between us could be one room, one continent, which yawns, split up before and after our impulses to fill the straits with the glass mosaic, where infinity would be dissolved, and nothing below us or above us exist, apart from the feeling of falling, without end, in a void without stars that would illuminate the spider web in which you and I hold on for a sigh or two. It’s…

  • Poetry

    I will become a drop in your eye

    I will become a drop in your eye, which will slip from time to time down your face, but it won’t fall. You will wipe me, you’ll get me off, with the conviction that it’s over. But it’s just beginning… I’ll be a reflection of your look in the mirror when you’re looking for me. I’ll be a thorn in your eye, but not as a threat -but as a memory. I will live inside your eye, like a bitter tear. I will slip from time to time and every time you wipe me before I fall, I will know I’m still hurting you. Every time you wipe furiously memories-…

  • Poetry

    She had dimples on her cheeks

    She had dimples on her cheeks and Converse sneakers older than herself. She wore badges on a denim jacket and colorful socks. She listened to Cigarettes After Sex and read the book Shadow of the Wind in city transportation. In love with literature, and the literature with her, too. Every other day she read a new book. Many poems and books have been written about her. I guess everyone wants to meet a girl with dimples on her cheeks and to approach her, but not to be a cliché. They observed her. Many still do, but she’s not anyone’s type. She’s just beautiful. She intrigued everyone with her existence. Of…

  • Poetry

    What’s (not) possible

    Your love, too, has become foreign language for me that I like to listen to, but I don’t understand it. Of your favorite music, which was at dusty closet, I remember how you could barely find those records, a replacement for the peace you sought. I barely found you crossing dusty roads and encountering unexpected turns. Previously, fights had brought us together. They often helped us to understand each other, to show the hidden sides of fear and mystery. Now, fights bring only silence -unbearable and endless. By pointing to multiple sides of us, what we were and what we’re not now. Just like in the old days, but we…

  • 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…

  • Prose

    We are friends, you say

    We are friends, you say, as I lean my head on your shoulder and you hug me stronger. If I ever try to come closer to you, I know you won’t turn me down, because friends don’t do that, right? But maybe I’ll start wanting more, wanting more from you. It’s funny, we both know it’s forbidden, but we feel freer than ever. “We’re just friends,” you say. But you have that look and you unconsciously raise your eyebrow when you have something else to say, yet you choose to smile and play with my hair because it’s easier than the truth. I do the same thing, I shake my…