The heart twisted inside my rib cage by the frayed ones, still managing the tension
of hopeless love rage, that sort of love which starts as a tiny spark, complexion, face
and becomes the flame that devourers anything that could have the stress of fate,
of a stretch of my lung, on an empty stomach clung. Holding my hand late
while on no men’s land, where none should grow. We’ll keep silent just the two,
then three or more. That sort of love that weaves and not just stitches and patches
to bury all the other ex cadavers.
Her name is Lara. She was born in 1984 and since childhood, this nomad has written about the worlds built up in her head. However, when she is too lazy to express herself with words, she uses her simple drawing skill.