Carve your heart and write “gullible” on it. Learn to cry without having that ugly look, the one that makes people think you cry every single day. You cannot avoid loneliness, you cannot heal from loneliness. Every time I enter a room, I’m the first one to get out. I wait for people in front of the public bathroom, without entering neither the stall nor the bathroom itself. I play bass. I love music, poetry, and life itself. I also hate life, the way it pains you and twists the knife into your heart deeper and deeper. Leaving you an open wound.
Carve your lung and write “gullible” on it. Learn how to be a good son. Learn how to compone music by yourself, past midnight, in your room. Learn how to not forget the good moments in your life. Learn how to forget the bad ones.

angels; marx, pain, hate, whatever

There was one day I started wearing clothes sizes bigger than me, with less shiny glitter and more heavy words, there was one day I started sewing patches onto my jackets, one day I dyed my hair black – you couldn’t even properly see the difference, my hair was dark before, but it changed something into my being. I had made my first choice; something that would stay for a longer time; something that would change what people think of me.

There was one day I saw someone who managed to sew patches onto my heart. That someone was myself, just a different myself.

One day I realized what rage painted me as. Not the right color, maybe. I wasn’t red, wasn’t the figure you’d see on your shoulder, that little devil. I was something not to describe, not to think about. Maybe I was like my father or mother, or both, or someone else. I was sure of something, though. I wasn’t like myself.
One day I realized I prayed to different angels than the others, one day I realized there was something deeply and unfaithfully wrong with me. Something inevitable, impossible to change. - fio n.h.

save me

Oh, oh, oh.
The siren screams, its sounds are so pained, as if it regretted choosing this occupation. Well, the siren didn’t really choose to sit on top of the ambulance. The siren didn’t pick what made it a siren, the siren didn’t pick what it had to do, the siren didn’t have a chance to choose happiness.
Sometimes I feel like a siren.
I witness people die, maybe not externally, but deep inside I know they don’t really live anymore. Shells such as me; so empty, so pained.
I toss and turn in my bed, hearing the sound of the ambulance. Once again, I wonder whether they’re coming to pick me up. Probably not, right? You never know.
I’m a siren not in the way of the water; I don’t make people addicted to my singing, longing for more, and I hope they don’t get to attached to my writing. No, I write the way an ambulance siren does. I’m screaming for help, for some consolation, hoping noone ever gives me a reason to ring.


They showed pills down my throat.
It didn’t hurt, no. It was pretty comforting, actually. The humiliation of being wrong, that extraordinary feeling of having done something good again. Am I good? Father, mother, respond. Please. Is it okay I want to kiss a man? Is it okay I’m not a man, nor a woman? Is the color of my skin okay? Am I alright? Is my brain alright? Does the buzzing in it mean something, or is it just residue of the radioactive fever?