Petra F. Bagnardi is a writer, a screenwriter, and a poet. She worked for the Italian TV network, RAI, and her poetry was published by various literary journals and magazines including, Masque & Spectacle Literary Journal, Punk Noir Magazine, Poetica Review, Drawn to the Light Press, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Ginosko Literary Journal, The Sunlight Press, Blydyn Square Review, Knee Brace Press, and more. She was short-listed in the Enfield Poets’ 20th Anniversary Poetry Competition and won second place in the Wax Poetry and Art Magazine’s poetry contest. She is a bilingual author, English and Italian.

Myself in a cracked shell

Most days, I feel safe and cozy within my ivory shell, which looks like a crazy and strange sort of realm. On the outside, it bears the appearance of a tiny house, impenetrable, even though the structure seems crooked and broken, as though it survived the weight of too many broken sentences and stormy prejudices. All about this fragile and imperfect place grows a garden – messy, colorful curls and rebellious daisies, and the humming of rivers. The roof stretches upwards in spirals and turrets, then bends into impossible and whimsical shapes. A private patch of sky floats up above – it often appears dotted with clouds, dense with rain, heavy with unexpected thunders; but at night, it gently fades to inky velvet dusted with gold and slashed with silver. On the inside, live spacious hallways and pathways of blue and yellow floorboards. They furl and crest like waters, restless and mad, even as they pour into a maze of rooms; one seems the interior of a stone castle, another a museum of modern features, another a theater. The liquid paths lead to closed doors of intricately painted wood that hide – wonders, journeys, films, plays, a few regrets, and desires aplenty. I keep the remembrance of lost friendships and broken loves in the attic, where the library rests, along with wardrobes containing disappointments and new beginnings. There I write, even as my gaze escapes through flimsy windowpanes to graze the velvety sky. Inevitably, my words disclose my inner wounds and grow into stories that seep through the cracks, then fall down along the walls to become rivulets and nourishment for my unruly garden. I entertain guests, some always welcome and beloved, a few intruders that the storms chase away; and the unexpected new friends of surprising kindness and healing humor. The layers of my shell unravel for them and the gusts of water abate – together we stroll down the blue and yellow pathways, then enjoy selected movies and wonderful moments, while the browning leaves produce crispy sounds in our wake. The essence of my being lingers everywhere, within and outside this manor made of complex inventions. At times, it may resemble a delicate butterfly with purple wings. Often, it is a story told in whispers, in cries, in thrumming heartbeats. The peculiarity of my imperfect self rests within my diverse body. I introduce myself with a kind stretch of my lips and a politeness of words; my behavior becomes mistaken for weakness and unwillingly my hearts rests jar and exposed to the cruelty of bullies. The tenderness of my soul too often confuses friends and foes; but my artistic endeavors are always a source of solace, nourishment and strength.