Finché Morte Non Ci Separi

The lexicon of love collapses, fractures, becomes a sentence. The everyday — gesture, ritual, body — implodes within the grammar of violence. Upon lapidary marble tiles, like relics of a silent sacrifice, lie lipsticks torn apart — no longer red with desire, but with wound.

Beside them, a blade. No longer an object, but a seal. A vehicle of transposition: from lipstick to body, from care to annihilation. Marble holds, in its cold solemnity, the irreversibility of memory.

The lipsticks — varied in color and form — become a tragic catalogue of transversal violence, crossing through ages, identities, geographies. A catalogue of pain.

The title — a ritual vow of love — mutates into a dark prophecy. Intimacy unmasks itself: no longer a refuge, but the final stage of domination. In most cases, it is a blade that closes the circle. And in that final act, sharp and irreversible, unfolds the cruelest paradox: love that grips, claims, possesses — until it erases.