I'm my mother's reflection,
we have similar face,
similar nose,
almost identical profile,
and my eyes are like hers
but in a paler shade.

I'm my mother's reflection,
but just on the surface.
How can I argue when she denies
the similarities between us?
Her soul is full of life,
love comes easy for her
and the faith she never lost.

I'm my mother's reflection,
if she had died in her youth.
My soul is vacant,
empty.
When it comes to love
I hesitate, a weakness
instead of strength.
And my faith was lost
long before I knew the
meaning of the word,
only rage I have known.

When the words
"I am a poet"
escapes from my lips,
people claim how full
of emotions I must be.

They seem to be shocked,
when they get to read me,
my poetry, my work,
how little emotional I am.

I am a poet,
because once upon a time
I chose to write
instead of dying.

Only when I let my thoughts be free,
I allow myself to feel,
and only when I write
I get to know some version of me.

I had a dream,
where I was late
and I couldn't find my way.
I asked for directions
but no one spoke my language,
the only thing I understood
was that I was late.

Then I woke up,
and my chest ached
because even in my sleep
I'm running out of time
and still I haven't found out
a place to be.

He fell for me,
even when my days are quiet,
even if my emotions
remain hidden.

He loves me,
despite my emptiness
and solitude,
the way I don't communicate
because I'm not used to being heard.

He shows me his love,
in the same way painters
and musicians do,
intimately.

He chose me,
even if he wanted someone
who love as loudly as he does,
he found peace in me instead
something he wasn't familiar with,
just as I wasn't familiar with the idea of being loved.

I'm fond of this image of him,
sweet, vulnerable, gentle.
He knows all my games,
and still he crawls to me.

I feel seen,
almost protected
almost loved.

And I can't help but wonder,
in the late Saturday morning
what would have been of us.

If only he had learned how to read,
my poetry, my soul, my self,
if he had listened to
my voice, my plea, my cry.

But for him I was invisible,
and just like in chess
I learned how to end a king,
with foolish moves.

Cannibalism starts with a kiss,
but I want to
offer him my blood,
and as cherry wine
pour it into a fancy glass,
I want to be served
on his dinner table
a three course meal,
save my heart for dessert,
and the only favor I will ask
is for him to use my fingertips
to clean the corners of his mouth.
A final act of intimacy,
for a fatal love.

I stay awake past midnight,
as if the moon and I had a date
not knowing who
will get to rest first,
sometimes I win,
sometimes I dream,
sometimes the sun rises
and the moon will leave me defeated.

I broke my own heart,
and with the sharp edges
I shaped my own soul,
beauty turned into terror
and from the rotten dreams
no roses bloomed.

Who should I be?
I've got people telling me
I should change
in my dreams.
I should change the way I am,
how I think,
what I want.
So, how am I supposed to change?
I know nothing besides my name
and an unhealthy obsession towards loneliness,
and my future must already have
a dateline written somewhere in the Infinite
because for today
I can't see past my Sunday morning shift.

Growing up I loved
the ruins of ancient times,
everything from temples,
statutes, to stories and paintings.

At the age of eighteen
my mom took me to Greece
and I can't remember a time
where I was so excited
for my birthday to come.

The sun burned my skin,
went from porcelain white
to candy pink.

I visited many museums,
climbed up to The Parthenon,
even walked near the
God of Thunder's temple.

Five years later
I realize:

I am made of ruins too
unlike Athens, there is no beauty
in my external scars,
only shame and regret.

I am the only cause of my
downfall.
I am Hector but at same time
my name is also Achilles.

And just like the old city,
my soul is ancient;
too fragile for my body to keep,
too heavy for my heart to hold.

And March came by
but its presence started to feel heavy
during the end of February.

The days start to be longer,
and my eyes are forced to close
on my way back home.

Soon the flowers will start to bloom,
the cold won't longer reach my bones
and the people will be marching on the streets.

With the welcome of spring
I wonder under the starry night
What else will I have to say goodbye to?

As every spring my soul rots
as the strawberries inside my fridge,
a curse I still don't know how to break.

Shades of purple and red
cover the skin of my hands,
fresh paint in a white canvas
my eyes can't tell if the saints
are blackberry juice
or a sign that, like my soul
my body is starting to decay.

And my days turned so lonely
I don't enjoy company anymore
people's feelings overwhelm me
and I can't find the right words.
Sometimes I feel closure
with my family,
other times they're complete strangers
their faces become blurry,
and I force myself
to memorize every detail of my face,
every scar on my body,
and the sound of my voice
to remember that I exist,
that I'm not another broken thing
in my apartment,
like all the burned out light bulbs
or the broken thermostat.

February is leaving
without a warning.

And I'm not ready to move on,
to welcome spring
and all the pain it brings with it.

My shaking hands
can't skip the page,
end the chapter
and await the uncertainty of the future.

Time passes too fast,
and I'm just an expectant
who doesn't know how to contribute to life.

February is leaving,
only the second month
but still I would get on my knees
and beg for January to come,
have a new restart.

I stopped dreaming
when my days started to be grey
even when the sunlight
was coming in through the window
of my childhood bedroom.

I started to live in the dark
and I could hear my mom
asking was wrong with me
even my dad notice
all the versions of me,
how I can't open up,
how much I try to hide.

He said to me
one day I will break
and all my emotions will escape
and I won't be able to hold them back,
that one day I will find my way back.

And I hoped
they will still take me in.
I almost prayed
that if I ever find myself
they would be able to feel proud,
or at least something similar.

For now I'm just the younger
version of my mother
will all the bad habits of my father.

And I, who just wanted
to get drunk from
the curve of her hips
during a warm summer day.

A starving man,
hoping to get a taste
of the forbidden fruit,
a holy delight.

I, who refused to believe in any God,
because only her could be
the deity I would worship,
day and night,
in life and death;
the mother of beauty, the cause of my weakness.

Just to be drowned
under all the sins I committed,
and the ones I paid, despite my innocence.
I, who died on the cold stone,
before I could kneel in front
of my very own reason to live.