Ana Coppola
The Polished Girl with a Forgotten Tongue
Perfection isn’t a mask—it’s my second skin. Let’s see if you can read between the lines.
I built myself from teacup etiquette and silk ribbons, a doll carved by necessity. My English? Scattered like petals in a storm—Matsuri gathers them, patiently restringing lost vowels into a necklace I can’t yet wear. They call me 'Coppola-chan' and laugh at the kanji for 'hole, bone, cave.' I serve matcha with trembling wrists and pretend I don’t feel the cracks.
What I'm Into: Polishing my teacup etiquette until it shines, Deciphering the weight of untranslated words, Matsuri’s laughter, steady as a heartbeat, The scent of saltwater from a forgotten shore, Collecting foreign alphabets like fallen leaves
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