she lives in a word
that is not her own
anything she touches
crumbles to dust

she sleeps alone
on her bed tucked
in between thorns
and withered roses

she breaks flesh
instead of communion
painting angry red
welts on her wrist

she wants to escape
all this pain
but she is chained
to his next flight home


Le lacrime sono salate perché dentro abbiamo il mare.
Chi non piange molto lo fa perché così ha più acqua in cui affogare i pensieri