HEART PIXIE

I am what I am.
It took me years to be like this.
And dreams.
And you are wrong.
I could have been countless others.
That to find us all together, apart from a common and sometimes vague resemblance, many would not recognize each other.
I am what I can.
That may not be much, but never judge anyone for what they are not.
In his place, you could have been less.
And seeing yourselves, you would be doomed.
I am my fears, which are many and some do not even have a name.
And they are just a shadow, a gust of cold wind, a noise in the silence, a phrase repeated in the head.
I am my hopes, I am the road on which I walk, I am my horizon, which does not follow the curvature of the earth, but the less geometric one of my life, of my thoughts, of my alternating emotions.
I am what I am.
And sometimes I still flap my arms to try to fly.

SPIDER FLOWER

The cracked crystal of a smile,

last shield between you and the world

Dull is the sparkle of your eyes,

cold and gray the embers of the past.

You have lost the queen's crown

to which all the people bowed.

In learning you fight against yourself

your brittle bones turn white.

In the silence of the evening and in the shade

you dance madly between pain and hope.



Where are your girl dreams?

What about love, happiness, adventure?

You don't remember the wind in your hair

messenger of light and color?

You no longer feel the red torrent

rush into the flesh?

Your senses do not awaken

with the cool light of dawn?

Do not sleep peacefully and serene

with the sweetness of the sunset?



You're naked in front of the mirror,

alone with yourself, unrecognizable,

you look around, no one is with you.

You've been weaving your own thread for too many years

in a canvas full of tears and errors.

And now you would like to break it. Stop it here.

But you are still alive, indomitable,

you can still look at the horizon.

Without turning to the past and the future,

walk towards the present and be reborn.

BONES FROM THE SEA

Bones from the flow of dead bodies inside a dream of freedom.
Bones of dreams.
Closed eyes.
Dreams disclosed.
Missing at sea.
Desperate dreams.
Eaten by sea monsters.
Scraped from the bottom.
Bones ended up in fishermen's nets.
Run out of ropes,
they couldn't swim.
Living was the reason.
Surviving was the end.
Azzurra is the tomb of these gutted children.
They saw the horizon but couldn't catch it.
At dawn they found the bones inside the pots,
like jewels picked up by mistake.
I scream because they are still alive.
They await the right burial.
Little children with no future.

STORY OF UNDERWATER

At the bottom of the sea the sun never sets. The sun, which seems to go out in the waves, has no place in the ocean depths. LAYA swam fearlessly among the corals and sponges of the seabed, of a dense, blackish blue; a viscous darkness for human eyes, but not for her, who possessed it, controlled it. It wasn't like that on dry land where darkness possessed her, controlled her. It infiltrated her body more and more every day: a tarry poison that penetrated her eyes, nose, mouth and filled her head, polluting her ideas; then he went down to force her breath, to numb her limbs. Although LAYA felt that something was wrong, that it wasn't right, that she had to rebel, she never did. The darkness comforted her, cradled her, clutching her organs, her muscles, her bones that she could no longer move. And she didn't want to move. When the darkness was thicker, his heart, so impregnated, slowed down so much, stuck, that LAYA watched him concentrated, wondering how faintly he could beat before stopping.

In his world it was not like that. In his world, even darkness was his subject.

He swam to the surface; hidden among the rocks she looked at the city where she had no place she could call her own, where all affection was a stranger. He watched the sunset color the horizon pink and lilac. He watched the sea sparkle with gold and wondered what could be so precious there, in the dry, for which it was worth facing so many humiliations, so many failures, so many losses. He watched his tail flicker under the surface of the water which gradually became an increasingly intense crimson: the princess, the symbol of a proud people, the leader of a valiant army, swam in those red, violent waters. There she was not placid, meek or compliant, there she was not herself, there she was free from herself.

She plunged back into the inflamed waters, swimming energetically towards the bottom, where she was alive and light and strong, where she didn't need or want to hide. He spotted a scorpionfish camouflaged among the rocks: he pounced on it and scrubbed it unceremoniously with his sharp teeth. The flesh tearing deliciously, the brittle bone shattering under her jaws gave her a thrill of satisfaction. She felt no pity for that fish, as she was sure no one felt for her.

MY PERSONAL THERAPY

It sinks, it is true, in life it sinks many times. Then you don’t know how to re-emerge. You swim in the midst of events that don’t seem to belong to you at all. You see horizons, many different horizons, but you’re tired of deciding which one to go to. Then the sea pushes you, with its liquid embrace, pushes you to change your mind, to recreate yourself, to leave useless things on that bottom where you trudged. And then you too become water and there is no longer any difference between you and the blue waves.

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