Let them be who they pretend to be, and let them fall.
Leave them to their misery, their hollow claims and borrowed skin.
Negativity, truth, and karma will swallow them whole. For they are their own demon, their own slow demise.
True colours fracture through the mask, the costume stained beyond repair. They hate the mirror of their own heart, so they hide inside a stranger’s face.
For a moment we are whole, delusions of the young. We don’t realise the ocean of black that awaits our older souls.
I am thunder, I am storm. Bones of mountain, skin of sea. A field full of roses and unfinished stories entertwining in the quiet in between.
Affogato afternoons, where the day softens and the heart sharpens. I sip the sweetness melting into the bitter, hoping it teaches me something honest. I remember I’m allowed to slow down.
Some afternoons are a truce. Others are a battlefield,
Where I sit across from myself, letting the espresso burn through the fog I thought I was done fighting. But here – in this melting moment – I let it all blur. The past I’m trying to outgrow, the future I’m not ready for, the voices that rise like steam and disappear just as fast.
Because in affogato afternoons, I learn the same truth over and over: Even the bitter can soften. Even the frozen can give. And sometimes, the only way forward is to let yourself melt just enough to begin again.
The earth held me when no one else did. I remembered myself in the space between the stars — in that breathless silence where the broken pieces finally settled. Somewhere between gravity and the void, I became whole again.
Tra fiori selvatici e vino, I toast the ghosts that never learned to leave me.
I tear the petals, I drain the bottle, I dare the night to swallow me whole.