Penciliving and other meltdowns
on the beauty of the sad boys,
those who keep in their pupils’ intensity,
a terrorist’s extremity,
on the one who can’t choose between two
paths and in the middle prey becomes,
on the mouth full of salt
and the sea’s cries that for its remembrance exalt,
on a mouth that stings from no return,
from the inside
and inwards,
this is the only way of writing I know.
Gather your broken heart,
and confess yourself:
make love to your battles,
submerge into poetry
like an impostor holding their breath
in an amphibian world,
vow to yourself (and thereby, the most worthy
of all the loves) the eternal freedom.