• Prose

    Bare to the core

    She believes that violence over the existence and perseverance in every emotion somehow needs to be continually earned- even to be deserved. She enjoyed her ability to take away his metaphorical inner extremities with ease. Feeling complete fulfilled her, in a way only he could identify with. He grabbed her hair and tied it with barbed wire of lust and longing. Black under her eyes and smeared cherry-colored lipstick. He injected her with pain. She watched him bend from the unbearable bone pain, watching how she relentlessly struggles to show him how he drains her blood and sweetens himself. Is that so? She knew she was bitter and poisonous, but…

  • Poetry

    Porcelain eyes

    The coefficient of impedance to emotions in those blue eyes is brutally equal to a sign of everything of what are they made. Formed by fracture and sharpness by which they intersected human superficiality, they could identify more and more with the finest kind of ceramics, priceless. If they are of any material, then they are made of it. The glaze inside them isn’t similar to any other color. It’s neutral and cold, strong and rigid, unusually different. The shape of pupils, it’s taking up all the space of rationality within the boundaries of the unimaginable. Flint pieces, appearing in the corners of the eyes, filled with layers of unbearable,…

  • Prose

    It’s good that I’m silent

    It’s good as long as I exist, as long I don’t talk about it, while you’re trying to guess. I don’t want you to know what’s hidden in my voice. I don’t want you to feel what’s flowing through my veins as you fight with me to open up and surrender to you. It’s good as long as I don’t give up. You will be swallowed by the chaos that’s in me if it tastes you. The claws of my hopelessness will grab you, and you don’t deserve that. It’s good as long as I don’t allow them and keep protecting you. But you must never know, that’s why I’m…

  • Prose

    The cashmere sweater

    It was pouring outside and she was sitting in a cafe, alone. Her yellow cashmere sweater was still wet, matching her mood. She photographed people outside, running to hide from the rain, frowned and angry. No one at that moment saw her spontaneous smile that followed their nervous steps. At least she thought so. She drank cinnamon apple tea while her cigarette was burning, forgotten in the ashtray. The window of her favorite coffee shop has never looked more magical. There was an old song on the radio that brought back some old memories of days when she was a kid and played with the leaves in the park behind…

  • Poetry

    Thirteen

    She was thirteen when she felt the need to change the world. Seventeen, when she stopped daydreaming. Eighteen, when she lit her first cigarette. It burned brighter than the flames inside her. She wrote her dreams on paper, but she didn’t put the paper in a bottle and throw it into the ocean. Instead, she buried her wishes in the yard, hoping that one day a tree will rise there. A tree whose leaves will not fall off and change colors, and that it will look natural when it turns seventeen. She was twenty-one years old when her eyes glowed the last time. Twenty-three, when even a false smile faded…

  • Prose

    The Butterfly Effect

    What is chaos theory? A butterfly swinging its wings and making a sweep or does it just touches us in a series of chaos, people, sorted out like dominoes? Are we the dominoes that collide with each other? The effect of butterfly remains, that is, the same chaos theory, something we encounter every day, consciously or unconsciously. We make decisions that may be good for us, but fatal for others. Decisions stemming from the smallest little things. It just seems like it, don’t get it wrong. But without them, we couldn’t create something big, something we think is, and often turns out not to be. With just one swing, these…