In another life, I have wings.
In another life, I can write on the skies… write pieces during the day that’d be watered by the sun then watch them bloom at night… like that I know I can grow light.
A tortured soul can be a torch of light… cuz all the fire you know… the burning.
I wake up every morning and dust the ashes off my body… my bed is an ashtray… I pretend I’m a Phoenix.. .I know in another life I had wings.
Maybe I was water… full of myself, empty of nothing… transparent… pure. And my poetry is the way I dance with the moon.
But in this life, my poems are the embers I couldn’t chew or swallow.
In another life, no friends are suffering… no friends are living life on survival mode and no friends are leaving.
In another life, women have wings. Their bodies are bullet proof, their collarbones are armors, their blood is anti-Kryptonite … and they’re as big as the sky.
In a another life, I can write better than this. Words don’t fail me.. I can scatter and arrange them on skies, watch poems bloom at night… then I can say that “I’m a poet with a mouth full of stars”*
Link to the Italian translation