by Ornella Purpura
photo by Noemi Zanardi
Your freedom
tastes like
gunpowder.
How strange
is your
medicine.
Because
even if I
take it.
Dying is
the best thing
I could do.
Your freedom
tastes like
blood.
It keeps
my brain
awake.
Because
it reminds
me of
the gun
you point
at it.
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