• Prose

    Skin old like an oak tree

    Only bark has left of me, old and rough like an oak. A hollow tree that only bothers lush nature. Do you know that, here, in this creepy woods we are all equal? Peeled humans. The moment until the last fall on the earth and until the last leaf fall on the ground… fragile branches that don’t attain even a fraction of the burden. Looks worse than sawing cuts, looks that shred the roots and cut wood. Mutilated in different parts, we seem scary and unnecessary, standing here. I feel like I’m migrating from my own skin, constantly. I’m afraid that my fruits will be visible because they will be…

  • Prose

    Scars

    What do you think of scars? What do they truly represent? A war or a curse? Pain or happiness? Are scars attractive? What about those who have unrecognizable faces because of the scars? They put up a mask because you’re afraid of them. Do you see your scars? Many of us are damaged, but we don’t see our bodies next to another, always looking at someone else’s skin. There’s always someone else’s pain easier to handle. It’s easier to see it until the turn comes to yourself. Not only do I write about scars on the skin, but it’s also just a surface because the ocean is also blue until…

  • Prose

    Pain worse than hell

    Your silence tells me that you’re screaming inside, your perfectly calm body tells me you’re shivering inside. From the outside, you are the living example of an indication in human form. Nobody sees you, nobody hears you. But I feel you. The level of my empathy reaches every movement of your body. I read the mimic of your face like a tragic novel in the late hours. It burns like hell, your pain. You enjoy it, don’t you? Do you enjoy the ability to hide from the rest of the world? To crawl up in all your emotions and punch them like you’re punching people on the streets like the…

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