You’ll be so hurt
when you find out
what I’m doing.

And I’m not even thinking about him.
He’ll be hurt too—
but somehow,
your pain
hurts me more.

I said,
if I go back,
I lose my progress.
If I don’t,
I lose nothing.

But I went back.
And now I have to ask myself—
maybe I’m learning
to stand my ground,
but I’m losing friends.
People are walking away.

I’m confused as hell.

You love me in a way
that leaves me breathless.

Should I teach him
to love me like that?
I don’t know.

I just wish
he cared for me
the way you do.

I’ve said it many times—
you are perfect, L.
But I don’t think
you’re the right man for me.

I feel I’ve hurt many people.
All of them,
with trembling voices,
show me
I might be on the wrong path.

But as my friend said—
everyone has their own journey.

Maybe those I’ve despised
are the ones I need to make peace with.
And maybe those
who stood by my side
are the ones I’ll have to hurt.

Because it’s not about them—
it’s about me.

Not depending on anyone
but myself,
my opinion,
my belief
in what I know
to be right.

Forgiveness—
that’s what we need.

To erase the past
and rewrite our story.

When I picture myself at fifty,
looking back,
I’d be happy to see the story
of a young woman
who was once erased
in her marriage—
but in the end,
they grew
and were happy.

I’d be glad to see
a garden
that once had no hope
yet somehow
we made it bloom.

Not just me—
us.

Will this work out?

You removed my face scan
from the building entrance.
I had to say
I was a visitor
in my own home.

But maybe this
isn’t my home anymore.

Maybe I fooled myself
into believing
God would make all things new
again—
if it were His will.

Now I see why
I couldn’t speak about you
in therapy.

I knew you were
a big part of what happened,
but I simply couldn’t
speak of you directly—
not the way I wanted to.

I think my mind,
smarter than I ever imagined,
was protecting me
from a truth
I wasn’t ready to hold yet.

But the Universe—
God—
this Force,
is guiding me
to see the truth,
to give me clarity.

If I had known before
what I know today,
maybe I would have ended my life.
Maybe I wouldn’t have endured.

But in just one month,
I’ve had a surge of maturity
that is keeping me going.

Maybe this is all
a great illusion of mine—
a dependent heart’s story
I tell myself
just to ease the ache.

But I have been praying.
And I want to believe
God is answering—
giving me wisdom,
guidance,
clarity.

That our marriage
still has a purpose.
That we
still have a story
left to tell.

I can’t see a life after you—
with another man.

Even though there’s another boy,
he’s immature compared to me.
I think that’s what
the cards were trying to say.

And if I return
to this marriage with you,
the package will be complete again—
the church,
your family—

and most likely,
I won’t want any of it.
I’ll only want
you.

What if you’ve truly changed?
What if you’re really ready
to love me the way I deserve?

I miss you so, so, so—
so much
that it feels like a hole
is opening from my throat
down to my belly.

I almost wish I were pregnant—
an unforgivable excuse
to come back to you.

It feels like everything that’s happened
has been telling me
I should never have left.

And God?
And the church?
And our friends?

Ugh—
will you text me again?

Hi, beautiful—
how have these last days been?
I’ve been thinking of you,
you know?

I confess—
I’m a little lost.
I don’t know what I want from my life.

Today I see myself
in a profession that maybe
wasn’t what I truly wanted,
but what I chose
to avoid discomfort.
Now I’m left with frustration.

So I ask you—
what did you want to be
when you grew up?

I remember—
besides being a ballerina,
we used to write so much.
Whole stories.
Whole books.
Our imagination so vast
that today I’m still in awe.

Would you like
to write those stories again?

I will be completely open
to you,
to whatever you want to tell.

Let’s color the world
with our words.

With love,
Me.

Hi!
I’m so glad you reached out—
it’s been far too long
since we last spoke.

Yes, let’s watch the movie.
I love the idea!

It’s okay not to be okay right now—
we’ll get through this together.

Today,
we can take care of our feet
if we want to be ballerinas.
No one will stop us.

Write to me again soon.
I miss you.

P.S. I love you.

From: Me
To: My Inner Child

Hello, my dear.
How are you?
I hope you’re well—
because I am not.

You’ve always been here,
speaking to me,
showing me signs
I refused to see.

Now I see.
Now I want to keep you close again.

I’m in tears—
it’s been so long
since we last spoke.

I think I grew up
and left you behind,
abandoned
the way everyone else did.

I’m sorry.
Will you forgive me?

I’ve done so many wrong things
to you
and to myself—
things I’d never
do to a child
if I were truly responsible.

So tonight—
if you’re willing—
let’s spend time together.

Do you remember
first grade,
when every afternoon
you’d run to the ballet studio
just to watch the girls
in their pink tights,
gentle and graceful,
warming up for class—
and you’d stand at the door,
dreaming of being one of them?

I remember.

Our mother said
we could never be ballerinas—
our feet weren’t right,
our toenails always ingrown.

So what could we do?
Dance in secret,
alone in the bedroom,
with Barbie
and the Twelve Dancing Princesses.

So tonight—
will you dance with me?

Let’s be ballerinas for one night.
Let’s be what we always dreamed to be.

Will you take my hand
for this dance?

With love,
Me.

It feels so strange—
as if I’m out at sea.

No land in sight,
only blue waves
rolling back and forth.

Sometimes
they bring me calm.
Other times
they bring despair.

What do I do
with this conflicting feeling?

I want to go back home—
to safety,
to comfort.

But I also want to live,
to explore.

I want to be married,
to care for a home,
for a family.
I found meaning there.
I found purpose.

And who am I
without that skin?

Have I given
the other versions of me
a chance to appear?

I need to rewrite this story—
but to do that,
I have to leave it in the past.

I tell people I’m divorcing
as if the process
were still happening,
but it’s already done.

I am divorced.

And it’s a leap into the dark,
yet there’s still
a thin nylon thread
tied to me,
wanting to believe
I’ll return to our little house,
our nest,
our love.

I’m going to live
in a small apartment,
letting go of everything
we built together.

And it hurts—
it’s not easy.
It stings like running a marathon
and, just as I thought
I was near the finish line,
realizing I’d taken the wrong exit
and now have to go
all the way back.

I’m too tired
to start over with someone else.

But I shouldn’t think about that now.
I should start over
for me.

I wonder if there’s still hope for us.
If, in the future,
your prayers will be answered.

I admit—
I was shaken.
I always wanted you to be
the spiritual man,
my pastor, my leader,
the priest of our home.

But I learned
you were never that man.

It hurts—
because I left for that reason.
And now you wake
at three in the morning
to pray for us—
because you lost me.

I was valuable,
and I didn’t even know it myself.

Hello, my dear—
it’s been a while.

We lost each other,
found each other,
but I was always here.

Looking back at what we wrote
reminded you
that a path was being built.

But you thought
it was already strong enough
to stand on its own.

Never.

The thing about having a home
is that you’ll always
need to care for it.

I like when you say
you love me—
but tell me, too,
that you like being near me.

Say it clearly.

It seems to hit me harder
than a simple
“I love you.”

I believe that after anger
there is a beautiful place to be—
a place of peace.

Like on a day of heavy rain,
thunder and lightning,
if we could only fly
above the storm,

we would see that the sun
never stopped shining.

It was there all along—
we just couldn’t see it.

I’ve been thinking lately—
I don’t understand how it can be:
literature so full of ornate words,
classical music tangled in
odd notes and fractured rhythms,
bitter wine too dry for
an untrained palate,

and a forest—
dense with trees and shrubs,
all intertwined,
chaotic yet each in its own place.

At first, there is no beauty in these things.
You must train for it—
breathe deeply—
to see that in all this bitterness,
this strangeness,
this confusion,
there lies beauty.

Not beauty in itself,
but in the knowing—
that you must live through it
to move past the first impressions,
and reach that moment of enchantment
that steals your breath,
when your heart beats differently
because it has caught a treasure
most eyes would miss.

The bad wine turns good
once you swallow it.
The forest becomes a clearing
when you walk through it.
The symphony becomes melody
once you learn to respect
the time of things.

Yes—appreciation is
respecting the time of things.

Sometimes you must read a text
and let it settle into you.
Sometimes you must listen to music
and let the notes caress you
until your eyes fill with tears.
Sometimes you must taste
the “bad” wine
to dismantle your own walls.

Once there was a square ball.
Wait—what?
Do square ***** even exist?

She didn’t like being square.
All her friends were round—
free to roll anywhere,
kicked, tossed,
thrown into the air,
feeling that rush in their hollow bellies.

Why couldn’t she be round too?

People left her in some corner,
stuffing her with all kinds of things.
She hated it.

One day,
a round ball saw her sad face.

Why so sad?

I wish I were round like you,
she said,
and burst into tears.

The round ***** laughed.
Since when does a box want to be a ball?
And they rolled away with their laughter.

A box?

The round ball explained:
If you became a ball,
people would kick you,
throw you,
use you until you were worn.
But a box—
a box keeps things safe.
Important things.
Have you looked inside yourself?

Yes, said the square ball.
Just a bunch of old stuff.

The round ball laughed again.
Old stuff? Those are memories.
Letters, photos, little gifts—
pieces of love and longing.
When people miss someone,
they open you,
and you give them back their heart.

The square ball looked inside.
She remembered tears—
both joy and sadness—
whenever her memories were touched.

So I’m a box? she asked.
Born to hold important things?

Of course.
You’re an incredible box.
I wish I were you.

And the round ball rolled away.

The square ball looked inside herself once more—
and no longer wished to be anything
but a box.

“May luck be in your favor.”
Really?
Really?

How many times has it been?
And if it was—
was it luck?
Or was it God?

It depends on who answers.
It depends on who asks.

Lately,
I don’t care.

They say we’ll never win,
that those above us—
mere mortals—
decide who wins
and who truly conquers.

Yes, because winning
is not the same as conquering.

You don’t change a team
that’s winning,
but they’re already champions.

So all that’s left
is to believe
that luck is on our side—
and God Emanuel
with us all.

"Don’t judge a book by its cover."
Sorry,
but let’s be honest—
a beautiful cover
draws attention.

And your cover?
Does it draw attention?

Looking at your cover,
would I know the story you tell?
The food you love?
What you’d buy?
What you’d wear?
Who you’ve lost
or who you’re searching for?

Who would be your publisher?
Who would be your author?

Do you even like your cover?

Would you be at the bookstore entrance,
or lost among the shelves,
hidden between so many other covers,
passing unnoticed?

Separation is not an option—
just as they say
that giving up isn’t either.

Why do we have this tendency to end,
to not go on?

Why can’t we talk,
swallow our egos,
and try one more time?

The new is good—
but the renewed is even better.

The renewed has history,
a feeling of triumph
and resilience.

Maybe the problem is me—
that I loved too much.

I wanted you to give yourself
the way I give myself.
I wanted you to cry for me
the way I cry for you.
I wanted you to care for me
the way I care for you.

To give you an idea—
I talk to you even when you’re not with me.

My God,
that’s awful.
I did give too much of myself,
and I don’t know how to change it.

It’s not just with you—
it’s with everyone.
I love too much.
That’s the problem.
Or maybe not.

Maybe the problem
is expecting you to love me
the way I love you.

But now I hate you.
You’re showing me
how much of an idiot I am
for giving myself away like this.

Because no one cares.
You don’t care.

I don’t think I ever gave you love—
it was charity.
It was my desperation
taking the lead.

How could you let
such an important date
go by unnoticed?

I came home
and you were asleep.
How?
It was supposed to be special—
even if we celebrated another day,
today never comes back.
Never.
It’s gone.

And I think I’ve grown.
I always give another chance,
always tell myself it will get better.

And yes,
the problem is me—
I keep carrying this relationship
on my back,
feeling bad for making you feel bad.

When I feel bad, you say,
“*******, leave me alone,”
and disappear for two days,
then act like nothing happened.
“All good.”

There’s no nonviolent communication
that could calm my rage,
my hate.

I will touch myself this time
with hunger,
as revenge
for all the pain you caused me—
and you won’t even know.

I’ll think of other men,
because in my mind
they’re better than you.

Why do I keep breaking myself
to make others whole?
To make you happy?
I’m not happy.

You know I take medication
just to be okay—
and still,
this won’t work.

I need to give a little love
to myself too.
A lot of love, actually.

Poems come and go.
How many have I left unwritten
simply because
I had no paper in hand?

They attack me without mercy—
sometimes at the break of day,
sometimes at nightfall—
but always,
always,
after a powerful feeling,
after a great illusion.

Always,
they are with me.

Sometimes I’m quick to say
I don’t want you—
and many other times I’m slow to say,
stay with me.

You know I’m a strong, powerful woman,
but you also know
I’m just a child.
I grew up without a father.
I don’t know how to love.
I only know how to give myself
and sink
into a vicious cycle of love
and dependency.

Save me now,
take me out of this sharp curve.
I need to breathe, my love.

Hold me in your arms—
I need the warmth,
the comfort,
a sweet kiss
with the taste of honey.
Amen.

You know I love
to wrap myself in your legs,
spread across the bed,
with the scent of our love.

Today was good,
tomorrow will be better.
Days of struggle are not
the end of the story.
With you…
I want bossa nova.

My birthday—
the day I was born—
also feels
closer to my death.

Sad, yes,
I must admit.

No one will remember me.
I try so hard
to make others feel important
on their birthdays,
to remember them.

But when my beloved day arrives,
they forget the one
who remembered them.

Ungrateful!
Don’t they know
I placed them
on a pedestal?

And yes—
those on top
don’t look down.

Maybe that’s why
they don’t remember my birthday—
because I valued them
more than I valued myself.

It’s not about the money itself—
it’s about being happy
with the choices
I’ve chosen for myself.

But this,
I already knew.

So why did someone from outside
have to tell me
this truth
that was already here?

Because I still don’t know
how to validate
the ideas
of my own voice.

The other day,
my friend told me
he was doing a master’s degree.

I told him
I’d left my job
and was living a quieter life.

He was happy for me.
I was happy for him.

I thought:
I wish I were doing a master’s.
He thought:
I wish I had a quiet life.

Lately,
my husband has been bothering me—
a lot.

He’s always moving,
in bed,
on the couch,
never still.

It irritates me.
But I’ve realized—
moving
is something the living do.

Which tells me
I’m more dead
than alive.

Living love is hard—
when you least expect it,
it sweeps your legs from behind,
leaves you sprawled on the ground,
bleeding out until you die.

There’s no one to save you.

I could say much more,
but I think only those who’ve lived it
know.

Your kisses
are dry across my body.
They don’t excite me anymore—
they’re like a lullaby.

I don’t feel desire,
I’m sorry.
I don’t know what happened to us—
if love cooled,
or froze completely.

I don’t want you to touch me.
My toes used to curl
every time
your hands
moved across my skin.

Now
there’s nothing.

I should keep silent more often—
today, yesterday,
and every day.

I feel useless.
I’m good for nothing.
Oh yes—
for cooking,
washing clothes,
ironing them afterward,
cleaning the house.
Yes, very useful indeed.

The problem is—
I made so many plans.
Ah, the plans!
The joy and the uncertainty of man.
The goals achieved
at the end of the journey.

Where are mine?
Gone,
long ago.

I wish I could tell you
about all my victories.
I’m sorry—
the ones I have
hold no value for me.

What I do have
are debts,
endless fatigue,
and the perpetual feeling
that I am a failure.

Yet silence,
before my failure,
brings light to my mind—
inspiration,
poetry.

I think I’ve learned
not to throw myself
back into the well I climbed out of.
And yet,
I lean over the edge,
staring down,
as if searching for something.

But there’s nothing there.
It seems the plans
I make for myself—
I throw them all down there,
as if burying them
in a grave—
my grave, once.

And now?
Another day passes.
I have made nothing
of myself.

I spent the whole day
waiting for you to get home from work
with my favorite hot dog
so we could have dinner together.

You arrived empty-handed.

I forgot
I needed to tell you
what I like.

Forgive me—
my life isn’t interesting enough
to post on Instagram,
but it’s no less colorful.

I live intensely, yes,
and those who’ve been with me
know it well.

I like a good secret.
If you want to know what happened,
just ask—
and with my words alone,
I’ll make you jealous
you weren’t there with me.

Then I’ll invite you
to live
a few lives
with a little more meaning.

You send me two messages—
“Hey love, how are you?”

I send you five, six, seven in reply.
You laugh,
but deep down,
you complain—
you think I talk too much.

The truth is,
I’m intense with my feelings.
When I express them,
I can’t hold back.

I write in ALL CAPS,
send a flood of emojis—
all so you’ll know
how much
your two little messages
made me happy today.

It’s hard for me
to read good books—
the kind that pull me in,
where I live inside the characters’ lives.

I begin to become the story,
and then, suddenly,
the urge to write bursts open in me.

Ideas tumble over each other,
and I rush to my notes app
to catch every drop of inspiration
before it slips away.

A book I could read in an hour
stretches into days,
because reading
always makes me want to write.