I don’t say.
Sometimes I breathe hard and I wait for everything to pass.
I don’t ask,
I wait for everything to stop,
for the wind and the storm to arrive.
I don’t say.
I do not tell of how many hells I have had and how many times I have drowned.
And they weren’t bathtubs.
And they weren’t toilets.
They were tomatoes from kitchen dinners with screams and destruction.
They were emotions that I was trying to restrain.
He was a monster that I was trying not to let out.
Words to forget everything that has happened,
at the entrance,
or in the bedroom, dawns, tears,
screams and more screams.
I have no respect for human beings.
I love monsters because I know they are monsters.
The human being, on the other hand,
always has too many nasty surprises.


I would like to thank all those who are near and far and who read me. Sometimes I start the day thinking that there is someone who wants to know what I have in mind, how life is going, or if I am still alive and this very thought keeps me alive. So I thank you that you are still there because I really sometimes think I am so alone that I would disappear without you. Thank you very much and Happy Weekend everyone 😉


Towels, plant wounds, I cry, among the leaves, I cry because everything got wet, it ended up in a ditch, I ended up in a ditch.
The room I was put in got flooded.
My crying no one saves him.
Sea salt does not absorb tears or moisture.
The sea is too far away and I have drowned. I dry the leaves, they are my inner plants,
I got my hands dirty but everything is useless.
The plants wither, the flowers rot, the house collapses, I collect bricks and chickpeas, and it doesn't rain but I cry.
I tightened my shoelaces to walk, but my feet no longer go.
The road is unpaved, with holes in it, no one comes here, there are too many holes.
The lady of the cats, the one who came to me and spoke to me, perhaps she is now dead.
My heart is buried you chickpeas, I can't even float on water.
I water new seeds and new plants.
The sun calls me out but I feel bad.
I can't swim anymore and this weight inside me splits me in two.
We are two opposite plants, me and her, the killer ivy.
I dream of bad things and they do not come true and then I would like to give up and empty all the vases, empty all the rooms, destroy the world.
Books under the bed, books in the cupboard, in the book cellar, in the book room,
and they end lives,
lives begin,
people who live and I the only one who does not have a life.
I am locked inside the house, I am locked inside the garden,
I'm locked inside the bedside table,
 inside the chest, inside the boxes full of books.
I broke into pieces of sheets and leaves.


Me too I would have liked to have few ideas, but fixed; instead of ideas I have many, but there is no glue that keeps them attached to me. Then those go far away, take flights that are not so controlled, they collide against some walls at times, at other times they get stuck in the trees and remain hanging somewhere that in any case I can no longer reach. Instead what I like, and what I like is what I do not stop wanting. I don't know if the nature of desires is to change and disappear: I only know that mine is to keep them close to me, close enough to let my heart and body, thoughts and all the pains related to thoughts shape me; I let them make me somatize, host the pain even on the skin and under the skin, in all the organs corroded by what I want and cannot have. I know it never changes what I like, but it was more important to find out what it is that I like. There was a time that seems very distant to me when I needed the wishes of others to discover mine, and I swear that I also tried to adapt, to file my edges to please me what everyone liked. Then I learned to choose, to choose for me and to choose me, which in the end I only recognize myself in what I like. And so I choose to prefer my pale skin to tanned shoulders, and black eyes to my almost transparent ones; I choose to prefer the leaves of the trees that are moved by the wind in the spring, and to let myself be bothered without shame by the smell of the sea in the summer; I choose to prefer D'Annunzio to Pirandello, and also to fight to defend this position if needed and for nothing else; I choose to shop together rather than watch a movie, kiss you with your eyes open to see that you laugh a little; I choose to prefer to offer you a dinner and then ask you if you will buy me a flower: it is a slightly more beautiful gesture of love; and I prefer to wake up early in the morning, sunset on the marble of the cathedral to the one on the sea, tea with coffee, being touched, lilies with roses. And then I know that I prefer to remember these things, to write them so as not to forget them, because it is always better to know where to return: in fact I choose to prefer to write to everything else, because it reminds me how to do it.

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