Singing was always my passion.
Music has always moved me and,
despite my attempts to hold myself back,
I always end up making a fool of myself in front of everyone
while some song is playing.
I sing because I copied my grandmother and
the birds in the morning and
the leaves with the wind and
the seeds when they sprout and
the flowers when they bloom.
I sing because I was born kicking to the rhythm of my crying and
because once I heard my mother laughing and
because when I walk my shoes make noise and
because I don’t know what else to do but that.
When I sing…I feel like I think the sun must feel when it rises again and
like my uncle felt when he saw my good grades.
He would smile and his gold tooth would shine and
I would sing because I was happy.
But, you know…
singing stops being art when it comes from the wrong body and
from a tongue that doesn’t know much about it.
It stops being important when you don’t sing in the tune they asked for and
about the things you’re supposed to.
The flowers die and
the sun no longer shines and
grandmother is no longer here and
good grades no longer bring the happiness they used to.
So I stopped singing.
(I’m not talking about singing.)
Mar 30
Mar 30, 2026 at 10:38 PM UTC
At 11:22 p.m., I sit on your bed
and wet the covers with my tears while you sleep—
your tiredness, a weakness to my clingy heart.
I came here because I thought you needed me,
that you wanted me.
You needed rest.
I’m just your way of getting it.
I whispered, “I’m going to the bathroom,”while you closed your eyes.
You didn’t care.
You weren’t here.
So I closed the door slowly,
trying not to wake you
with the screams my shattered hands wrote on the sink.
And I just stood there.
There—between white tiles and a ***** mirror,
my face covered in traces of loneliness and pain.
I touched my body
and begged it to stop staring at me,
to stop judging me,
to stop calling me names.
It’s what it does
when I’m not enough
for the people I love.
You wouldn’t understand
if I ever explained it.
So I just go back to the bed,
try not to cry anymore,
and sleep as peacefully as you do—
even though peace
feels like a place
my body was never meant to reach.
Mar 22
Mar 22, 2026 at 12:49 AM UTC
Here I am before the same mirror, again,
picking up with my eyes the ***** roads, the damaged streets,
the wet sidewalks of my old body—
not old in age, but in pain.
They move to my ears,
and I picture all the awful things I’ve heard
about the one in the mirror.
I hear the shattering glass of the only mug I ever had,
its warmth spilled all over my wooden floor,
while the screaming of a broken woman
fills the space with despair.
They land on my nose.
I smell the flowers I never received
and the cookies I never baked,
waiting for “the right time” to learn.
The perfume clinging to my body,
the oils meant to make my dull skin shine.
The black coffee he used to drink before he met me—
then it was sugar and milk.
He went back to black.
Now they rest on my mouth,
parted and cracked
after the kisses I never gave
and the words I never spoke.
Black thread pulling them tighter
as I forget what I once wanted to fight for.
I’m tired of fighting, though.
My heart doesn’t know that yet.
They stop at my round chin and long neck.
A chin red, purple, and blue
after taking with dignity
every punch a sad life could give.
A neck full of tattooed lips
and knife scars—
one for every kiss I received,
one for every horror I survived.
They end where they began.
They’ve seen a lot,
and it always feels like not enough.
More sorrow than laughter—
that much I know.
They examine every part of me,
just like the people outside this dark container
I’ve folded myself into,
as if that’s the only thing they know how to do.
There’s never a right time
to start hating yourself.
So, you just start.
Dec 27, 2025
Dec 27, 2025 at 5:55 PM UTC
With my body on fire and my head in flames,
I no longer know what to do.
I don’t know how to bear the burning pace
of a mind that misses you,
or the constant memory
of your hands tattooed on my skin.
My nose takes charge of breathing in
the slow, lingering echo of your scent—
oak, pepper, and musk
clinging to your rough skin,
soft only for me.
I can see you in the absence of your presence,
in my vast and clouded solitude,
in the blood and heat of a sun that does not orbit,
in the blisters of my sleeping heart.
I no longer know what to do.
I swear I can feel you, even when you’re gone,
and I lose my mind circling
the concept of what eternal truly is,
for I have never known eternity—
and tonight I pray to heaven that it’s real.
Let it be real, the ashen black of your hair.
Let it be real, the forest thick of your brows.
Let it be real, the abyss of your eyes.
Let it be real, the sweet melody of your voice,
and your lips that kiss me now.
Let it be real, the weight of your tongue,
and the places where you bury it.
Let it be real, that feast
that rests between your thighs.
Let you be real, amid my clumsy longing.
With my body on fire and my head in flames,
I no longer know what to do.
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 1:01 AM UTC
There was a time when writing was impossible for me.
I’d pick up the pen, open the notebook, read what I’d written before,
search for the right page to pour out all my thoughts,
write the first word… and then stop.
There I’d stay, staring at the paper,
black ink running down my fingers,
a lagoon turning into a river
as the heavy minutes
of a meaningless life drifted before my eyes.
I tapped the canvas with the tip of my brush,
hoping to awaken something that had fallen asleep—
but nothing happened.
The first word I had written
no longer made any sense.
And in the imposing silence of an empty room,
my frail heart spoke.
It reminded me how sad I am,
how much harm I’ve caused,
the blood it’s spilled
with every blow it took, like a punching bag.
And then, it began to sing.
It sang of how much it longed to love
and how impossible that was.
It sang of its darkest desires
and how it never found anyone to speak of them.
It sang the mournful tune of an eternal loneliness.
And without warning,
it broke through the box of bones that protected it,
tore the tender skin of the chest that sheltered it,
snatched the pen from my hand,
and shredded every remaining page
of an untold story—
with the same force it used
to rip from me even the chance to remember.
Its fury devoured every word
that once existed and felt real,
scattering the ashes of what once was.
Because broken hearts write too—
even in ruins, their pain persists.
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 12:51 AM UTC
It’s so hard to understand the ease
with which your eyes can see
what I myself cannot.
It’s so hard to understand the need
that lives in your hands
as you try to solve
the puzzle of my naked body.
It’s so hard to understand the reasons
why you say it’s me and no one else,
when it has never really been me—
it’s always been someone else.
It’s so hard to understand the way
you love me,
because the trauma of a broken heart,
a bruised heart,
cannot be healed overnight.
And none of this is your fault,
but it is your fault
for making me believe
that a shattered heart can love again.
I’ve cut myself enough on the pieces…
I can’t do it one more time.
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 12:49 AM UTC
You know? Today I started crying out of nowhere.
Lying in bed, phone in hand, photo gallery open,
and a picture you once took of me, distracted,
where I swear to heaven, I look terrible.
The tears slid endlessly down my cheeks
and fell onto my bare chest,
knocking at the door of my heart,
asking to be let in to clean a little of the dirt
left by the footsteps of an old love—
if it can even be called love.
I tried to stop them, but they were insistent, relentless, burning, enveloping.
And the worst part is, that list of words isn’t meant to describe pain,
but to show you how much they… how much you make me feel.
The last time I wrote about love…
No, I’m sorry.
The last time I wrote about what I thought was love,
I did it with tears in my eyes—just like now—
but those tears were crushing, piercing, devouring.
They didn’t knock at the door to clean; they barged in, ready to drown.
I guess that makes it seem like I’ve never really known what love is.
But looking at that photo in my gallery, for a moment I thought
that for the first time, I could see.
I could feel, I could believe.
For the first time I was close to understanding love—
to drinking it, to savoring it, to living it.
Do you know why I cried?
I cried because I saw myself in you.
I saw myself through your eyes and I was beautiful.
I was funny, I was smart,
I was a glass of water to a man who had lived his whole life thirsty.
I was me, in all my splendor.
And I have never been splendid.
But for you, splendid is a word too small.
And I hate to tell myself this,
but I’m about to believe you.
I’m about to believe that I deserve to be loved the way you love me,
that I deserve to be listened, no matter what I speak of,
that I deserve to walk on flowers and fresh grass
and stop dragging my feet across a road of broken plates,
that I deserve more than the cold blade of despair.
That I deserve you.
But it scares me so much to believe.
It scares me to open my palm and receive without trembling,
to fear that one day you’ll wake up and decide I’m not enough,
to fear that this too will turn to dust in my hands
and I’ll walk on splinters again instead of petals.
It scares me that my heart won’t know how to hold
what it has always asked for.
And yet here I am, with open hands.
Willing to let you see me and name me without masks,
to let your eyes rebuild me with every glance,
to walk without fearing that my steps will be heard,
to stop being afraid of love,
and to believe, even trembling,
that this time, at last, love belongs to me.
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 8:09 PM UTC
Since I was a child,
sadness has walked beside me longer than I dare confess.
She stayed through chaos and madness,
through the murkiest nights (for she is all I ever knew)
and even through my brightest hours (for I felt I did not deserve them).
Since I was a child, I was taught not to be sad—
not to feel so fiercely,
not to show who I truly am.
I was told to lock my sorrowful eyes inside a vault
with everything that made me imperfect to the world.
And so, I did,
all my life…
until you came.
You opened the vault of miseries
and embraced them one by one
until you reached my forgotten sadness.
You held her long enough to make her weep,
and for the first time in years,
I felt free to be.
You caressed her hair
as if touching a secret of the universe.
You kissed her cracks
and stitched together the frayed threads
that lashed against you, eager to cut—
and they did.
But you licked the blood from your fingers and smiled:
“We will be sad together,” you said.
And you wept.
You wept with her as she unveiled
all the times I hid her,
cloaked her in masks,
denied her the right to be mine.
All the times she was cast out as a curse,
named poison instead of balm.
All the times they tried to tear her away from me,
blind to the truth that she was
my most human refuge.
You saw her for what she is:
another way of feeling.
Thank you
for teaching me to feel.
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 3:30 AM UTC
How can one be that obsessed with someone?
How could anyone in the whole world wake up one day
With the eagerness to see just one face for the rest of their life?
How could anyone grab oranges and not even think of eating them as soon as they touch their hands
Because they can’t think of anything else but getting home to share them with someone?
How, how, how?
Why do I feel like the sun is not bright enough if I don’t get to see your smile?
Why does chocolate taste like charcoal when I’m not eating it with you?
And why do I go out of my way to have the pillow always ready for your head,
Because I’m scared your thoughts might drift away and lie to your face about how beautiful you are?
Why, why, why?
What is it that makes me want to write you poems,
Even when the alphabet of my life is missing the letters y, o, and u?
What is it that screams at me to wash your shoes,
When mine look like dirt was made for them?
What is it that runs through my veins every time the stars you call eyes
Look through the cloth I call soul?
And I know it’s more than blood, and I know it’s more than love.
My love, how can someone beg for you
In the middle of the night, between the sheets of a broken work of art?
My Lord, how can someone love with such clouds and lilies in the park,
And chamomile tea in the morning, while you fill up my heart?
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 4:30 PM UTC
Like cold water that makes your skin tingle,
And the shining rocks that hold it,
Like the strength of tiny waves that drag you to dream (to live),
In your waterfall, you heard me.
And your sweet touch on my burns set me aflame,
And your hands awakened in me what I thought was dead.
And my tongue grew again, after years of having cut it with torment,
And you showed me the sky, you showed me the uncertain.
And I began to speak.
And I spoke and spoke so much that my heart grew tired and my words ran out,
Yet still, you listened.
And you were so bold, so harsh, so kind,
So difficult, so sad, so tender,
So cold, so fresh, so you—
That I created a dictionary just to compose words in your name,
And I started with the word “waterfall,”
And I sank into you.
I like how you listen.
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 4:24 PM UTC