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There were holes in my underwear. I could relate to it so I never liked buying new ones.
Back then I could relate to just about any broken thing, a stick in the jaws of a strong dog, a vase... urgghhh the sound of breaking glass makes me cry. It always has, it's like an automatic response, tears just start crawling down me.
Sometimes I would break things on purpose just to make me cry, that's why you will find in my old home a cabinet full of glasses with no match. The few that didn't break.
I find it hard to break on my own. A hug and I can cry to fill a river but when I'm alone, I don't cry. When I was a child I had to learn how to cry. I never internalised it. Screaming, that came naturally. Punching a wall, that hurt a little bit.
Crawling, I did that a lot, I would crawl through my anger until the feeling of hopelessness and guilt and something more earthly and immediate mixed with it, went away. The feeling would go and the stinging would come pouring upwards…
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Comfort of friendships past

His eyes remind me of the dirty waters of a river that crosses Tirana's city centre. A calm, small river, it's water muddy, honey brown and liquid like his eyes. Small, strong eyes that look at me the way my grandfather, a history addict, looks at old books. His hands are chunky and his grip is strong like those of workers back home. His heart, pure, blooming, in love.  I only feel comfort when my fingertips touch the nape of his neck and his heavy eyelids fall gently and he smiles. He is home.  He is the safe garden where children that are yet to come play joyfully with water guns and sing nursery rhymes. He is the perfect cup of tea, the heat of a cozy water bottle. He is comfort. He is a no fear zone, no worries, no jealousy, no delusions. He is the one, who will always be there.  But I, will not settle my dreams into this home, so comforting and lazy. I will not settle my goals into simplicity and love and children, I am unable. I feed on feelings awful and sharp like the …

Flavours of peach

My mother bought peaches today. Soft, plushy, pink orange, colours of my grandmother's garden in full bloom. The mellow smell of peaches opens me up inside and fills me with nostalgia for summertime in Albania.
Memories of messy bites and juice running down sticky, tiny hands. A sweet and prickly taste fills my mouth with images of open spaces and hot, dry courtyards, sounds of grandmother washing carpets and children playing on the streets and dust wearing only shorts and cotton vests...
Peaches, remind me of the smell and the tickling touch of my mother's hair on my face as she put me to bed late during hot starry southern nights. And hugs. And love. And rosy soap on my face before bedtime...
It's amazing, how many different flavours you can taste on a single peach.

But so does life...

No, I'm not upset my loves. I'm looking for a poem, a line, or word. One that's not been said before.  I'm looking in the water for lost sounds to describe the colour: dark blue-green, sunshine-drizzled waves, playing with the wind. I am quite happy laying in this place of light and calm, looking at the light grey clouds, waiting for a drop of rain to come. Waiting for a drop of rain to fall on my lips and quench my thirst for inspiration.  I think, I imagine, I daydream, of poems and lines, and words I would never dare to speak or write. Harsh stanzas that only rhyme with the broken rhythm of life. Fast poems that my tongue will slam in secret around my mouth until the overflow pours out. I think bills and forms and things I don't want to think about. I look at you and think again about the good things in life, my lovers, my loved ones. Your eyes, I daydream of them looking deep into mine and then snap. Snap out of it.  I am the harsh, the broken, the unrhymed. Th…

Worn off

Another day and nothing happens.
My ears echo, I'm drowning in deep waters and I die.
This is how I die.
With every second my heart beats slower and my dreams stretched far away start running from me. My dreams, abandoned, worn off, pissed off, reject me. They stick up their noses, they won't talk to me.
This is how I die.
In crowds and constant noises of conveyor belts for fifteen hours in a day that only lasts another second and I wait, for rest.
My dreams, worn off. My jacket, worn off. My soul... crushed under the conveyor belt.
This is how I die.


Food chewed yesterday still sticks on his lips.
Beans, meat, bread,
Something like vomit between his front teeth.
His breath smells like spices
and cigarettes.
His mouth staining
her dishwasher liquid skin.
His mouth, recounting
last night's stains on soapy sheets,
to his rotten food mouthed friends.
Beer, laughter, curse, curse, so much cursing...

Their mouths
our washed up names.

Just a day...

Her bed is a warm home made of duvets and pillows that were once clean and fresh. But today she cannot be bothered. Clothes thrown everywhere, but who needs clothes. Who needs clothes.
There is no food in the fridge, but there are chocolates on the side of the bed. They have been stepped on, but they're still good to eat in the short moments when she's awake. There's tears falling lazily, unnoticeable. Her nose doesn't even wrinkle up, her skin calm and frozen under leftovers of a full face of make up from three days ago.