• Poetry

    You cannot lose something you never owned

    House without visitors, life without notice, invisible among delusions and slaps, silently sobs behind its walls, even though they crush and suffocate me. Bottle floating in muddy water, without a letter, without a signature, there’s no one to receive it. That house is a skeleton, that house is me. Even the skeleton has a soul. For some of us, if we’re lucky, we will never run out of sunny days without worry in a house full of laughter. For others, life is a puzzle of incomplete moments, too much of them spent, unnoticed and forgotten, behind the non-talking structures, because words are too difficult to pronounce. Am I selfish for…

  • Abyss of thoughts

    The complexity

    The most important thing is to understand that people are too complexed, small and miserable and that, versus those who don’t have an inferiority complex, they fall into shadow and oblivion. So, before you burst into tears, consider your worth and compare yourself to those same people. If you’re like those complex miniature brains, you sink together and you fall into oblivion.

  • Prose

    You look beautifully lost

    You look beautifully lost, with headphones in your ears and hands in your pockets, so nothing disturbs you. Restless hair, eyes closed as you look at the world, the one in you, the one forbidden to the one outside. Without a smartphone that certainly won’t make you smarter, the mute off on the phone, you don’t want any distractions. You walk past me as I sit on the sidewalk. I’m smiling, but you don’t notice it, you’re lost, beautifully lost. While looking at you, I’m imagining what you might be thinking at that moment. What’s the problem? What bothers you? Maybe you’re thinking about someone that hurt you, or perhaps…

  • Poetry

    I’ll tear my skin with dirty fingers full of foreign bodies under my nails

    I’ll tear my skin with dirty fingers full of foreign bodies under my nails. It stretches like it’s elastic, convinced that my hollow bones are its home, its layers are full of clues, full of blood. I dig in it with my palms, I dig with my nails, as deep as possible inside my skin, helplessly, every day. It’s here more and more convinced that I was the right one for it, that my flesh is its flesh, that we are one. And I know we aren’t. Every time I look in the mirror, every time I feel the water, every time I put on my shirt, I know we…

  • 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…

  • 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…