Winter Berries

I packed my hopes like breakable dishes, wrapped them in silence, taped every seam. New city, new light, same tired wishes— I moved like someone chasing a dream they only half believed in.

I told myself it would fix the rot: fresh paint, new streets, unfamiliar skies. But grief grows legs, walks where you walk, and memory's a parasite that thrives in empty apartments.

The cafes here echo like cheap advice, and even the sun feels counterfeit. I scroll old messages once, then twice— they've moved on, I'm still stuck in it, whatever it was.

They text back with stiff punctuation, timed like pity, or worse, politeness. Some don’t reply. Maybe that’s salvation. I get the hint—my name’s now weightless in their new lives.

And still I replay the dirty jokes, the nights we swore we’d never change. I hated that life until it broke— now I miss every cracked exchange, each ghost in my phone.

I came here hoping to shed my skin, but I only grew another layer. Turns out, leaving doesn’t let you begin; you can’t outrun what isn’t there— just the echo of what was.

Cresceva tronco storto in selva maledetta, tra rami muti e foglie senza fede; avevo scelto fine senza cede radice e nodo a stringere la fretta.

Poi voci, luce, mani nella rete dei rami miei. Nessuno sa il peccato, nessuno sa ch’io fui già rinnegata dal corpo mio, ché foresta morta era il desio.

E ora tremo, non per ciò ch’è stato, 

ma per chi resta, e ride, e non comprende che sfiora un ramo un tempo disperato.

I quit months ago.

Not loudly, not heroically.

Just… quietly stopped losing.

The scars stayed.

Like stubborn graffiti

on a wall I don’t even live near anymore.

Then she saw them.

Not fresh. Not bleeding.

Just the pale, mapped reminders

of a time I didn’t think

I’d survive long enough to regret.

“These are recent,” she said,

with the confidence of someone

who’s never read a calendar

through someone else’s shame.

Now she checks.

Daily.

Like she’s guarding the perimeter

of a war that’s been over

long enough to forget who was winning.

Like vigilance is affection.

Like suspicion is safety.

And I flinch every time.

Not because I’m hiding anything—

but because her eyes

don’t know how to see me anymore

without scanning for damage.

She keeps asking me to wear short sleeves.

Like exposure is honesty.

Like if the scars aren’t covered,

they’ll stop being real.

Or maybe they’ll finally start to make sense

to her.

But I didn’t survive

just to be someone’s daily inspection.

I don’t want to explain

why healing doesn’t always look like blooming,

why your concern

can feel like control

in a prettier outfit.

I’m not breaking.

I already broke.

I already mended.

I just wish you’d stop

digging through the ashes

like you’re still hoping

Mi risveglio nella mia selva, non più donna, ma creatura viva e muta. L’aurora mi trova spoglia, 

non morta, ma legata alla terra. Non per scelta. Mai per scelta.

Il vento non mi fa dimande. E forse per questo lo ascolto. Non pretende risa, non invoca fioritura.

La mia corteccia cede in punti, là dove, un tempo, tentai di aprirmi 

a forza, per mostrare che qualcosa batteva dentro. Nessuno contò gli anelli.

Non caddi, come gli altri. Mi piegai. Lenta. Storta. Finché non ebbi più sembianze umane. E smisero di cercare il volto.

Quando passano nel bosco, la guida gli sussurra: “Quello ancora sta in piedi.” Non vedono le viti serrate che strangolano il mio spirto.

Uccelli fanno nido nei miei vuoti. Canto solo per riflesso, lasciando a loro la voce.

A volte immagino il fuoco non per cenere, ma per luce. Non per svanire, ma per ardere, una volta soltanto.

Il suolo conserverà il mio nome, non quello inciso da mani altrui, ma quello che sussurrai nell’ora muta, quando nessuno restava ad ascoltare.

Se mi indurisco al silenzio, non piangere. È da anni che parlo in lingua di foglia e linfa.

E se un giorno non resterà di me che ombra contro il vespro, incidi la mia scorza:

I do not pray to gods.

I’ve seen what silence they leave behind.

I do not kneel in chapels

unless I’m counting exits,

or reading the cracks in the marble

like scripture more honest than mouths.

I sing no psalms but this:

“Let meaning be found,

not given.”

Let belief be a bruise I press with purpose,

not a veil sewn into my eyes.

Let truth arrive slowly,

fractured,

held in doubt like smoke in my lungs.

I was born under stained glass,

but I never mistook the light for mercy.

Only colored noise.

Only spectacle filtered through pain

someone else called holy.

I do not call this faith.

I call it persistence.

I call it watching the same question rot

without looking away.

O Lord of Absence,

O Architect of Error

if you exist,

I am your consequence.

If you do not,

then I am the song your name left behind.

Amen,

or something like it.

I woke among the branches again.

The dawn found me leafless,

but still rooted.

Not by choice.

Never by choice.

The wind asks nothing of me,

and that is why I trust it.

It does not beg for laughter,

or require that I bloom.

My bark is thin in places,

soft from the years I tried to split myself open

to prove I had rings inside.

No one counted them.

I did not fall like the others.

I bent.

Slowly.

Gracelessly.

Until I resembled a tree

and they stopped looking for a person.

When they pass me in the grove,

they say,

“That one stands tall.”

They do not see the rope of vines

tight across my voice.

There are birds that nest in my hollow places.

I let them sing for me.

Sometimes I imagine fire—

not for destruction,

but for light.

Not to vanish,

but to prove I could glow,

just once.

The soil remembers.

It cradles my name,

not the one carved by others,

but the one I whispered to it

when no one else was listening.

If I harden into silence,

do not mourn me.

I have been whispering

for years

in a language made of leaves.

And if someday

I am nothing but a silhouette

against the dusk,

carve into my bark:

I chose the quiet

because no one knew

how to stay

I do not call it faith, this quiet doubt,

This tempered blade I carry through the dark.

The prayers they taught me, worn and smooth, fall out

Like coins in graves, no sound, no guiding spark.

I’ve seen the holy splinter, watched it rot,

The polished creed dissolve in shallow breath.

And yet, I seek not grace, but what is not.

A shape beyond the margins drawn by death.

The mind still flinches where the void begins,

As if some echo waits beyond the wall.

I do not ask for pardon or for sins,

But feel some ache when meaning starts to fall.

There is no god that I would speak above

Not because I believe in the God you’re speaking to,

but because you do.

Or did.

Or want to.

Or hate that you still want to.

Pray because you need someone to be angry at.

Pray because silence with a name hurts less than silence without one.

Pray because if you’re going to carry this much pain,

you deserve somewhere to put it.

Even if that place doesn’t answer.

Even if that place is empty.

Even if that place is you

talking to yourself in the dark

and pretending something listens.

That still counts.

That still matters.

Because praying doesn’t mean surrender.

It doesn’t mean trust.

It doesn’t mean you believe in heaven,

or forgiveness,

or love that doesn’t hurt.

It just means:

“I’m still asking.”

And that?

That’s power.

So yes.

Pray.

Not because you’re sure.

But because you’re not.

And because that,

In shades of despair, I take my last breath,  

A fleeting moment, darkness claims its prey.  

Down to the depths where sorrow dances with death,  

His blessed realm welcomes me to roam and sway.  

Cerberus waits with three heads full of scorn,  

His tails entwined thirteen times 'round my plight;  

A warning from hell for the lost and forlorn

The dark forest beckons, shrouded in night.  

Where shadows whisper secrets of past woe,  

In silence I will find a bittersweet rest.  

Amongst twisted branches that mournfully grow,   

I linger in dreams of an eternal quest.   

So here I'll abide with regrets intertwined;    

i fear seeing Him more 

than meeting my end

by the altar I stand

my spirit laid bare 

Sundays roll 

in, with hymns

sweetly sung, guilt 

wraps around me, an 

unforgiving tongue.

will i be here for the 

I pray the wind will answer 

my voice is lost

so is my will, falling 

i hope the currents 

will disperse my thoughts 

and one will reach you 

reminding you of 

Senza messa o un dolce fiore,

Un destino che porta l'ombra pura,

Di un’anima in pena, priva di ardore. 

Nessuna pietà per chi sceglie il silenzio,

Un segno per me, una croce da fare,

Manco il nome scritto, in questo tormento,

Il desiderio di esser potuta restare. 

Esser vista, in questo cammino, desidero

Anche se in vita solo un ombra piange,

Desideravo la luce, un destino divino. 

In fondo al cuore, la verità espanso,

Ricordate il mio passo, la mia via,