Rotten apples

His expressive look is killing me, petulant. He has a certain way of seeing me that destroys the lack of courage in me. This has been replaced by a cowardice, dry and sharp, like wood breaking, or the blow of a whip leaving deep bruises. The situation is certain, getting out of it is a gigantic doubt. My throat has become dry and passing saliva hurts. I am struggling to hold his piercing eyes. And I surrender to the restlessness, massacring my weak self.

“Aryanna Viscardi, do you