Was this really what I wanted?
Did it have to be this way?

Was there nothing left
for our story to become?

Santiago and Veronica
would probably be upset.

Can I make you a proposal?

We live apart
but talk every day.
On weekends,
I come to your house—
our house.

We date.
We try to reconcile again.

I want you back.

Once again,
I need to rewrite this story—
and I have to take responsibility for it.

You came back into my life
to show me
so many things were wrong
in my marriage,
and that I needed to align
with myself.

You came to show me
that I deserve more—
and not necessarily
that I have to be with you,
but that I have to love
differently.

I thought I was empty—
but the way words
poured from me onto the page
proved I was, in fact,
overflowing.

Brimming with ideas
echoing inside,
begging to be set free.

I spilled them all,
and now,
I am truly empty.
And it feels
so much better.

This divorce has existed
for a long time.

Even if you grieve for it,
grieve more for yourself.

It’s time to release
all the filth you let pile up here.

Do you remember how you suffered?
The anguish of feeling alone?

You were always playing a role—
you, trying to make it work
every
single
day.

Yes, there were good moments,
things that were genuine.
And maybe longing
will walk beside you forever.

But the poems you wrote
two, three years ago
don’t lie.
You weren’t lying to yourself back then.

And back then,
you were already yearning for healing.
You spoke of the pain
of having no one.

Yes, you hoped he would save you—
though you didn’t know it consciously.

But you saved yourself, in part.
That job was the first breaking point.
And now, this marriage—
is the second.

You deserve more.

I want to text you
and say there’s still
a possibility of a future for us—

because it would give me comfort
in my little world of illusions,
knowing that even if I live my life alone,
I still have somewhere to return to.

And that place
would be you—
even after all the pain.

But it wouldn’t be fair to you.
Because I’d be keeping you waiting,
when you could be living your life,
with someone better.

I wonder why I keep delaying the end with you.
I never fell in love with you—
I fell in love with the freedom you gave me.
And maybe that’s why
my farewell still waits,
unfinished,
in a notes app.
I don’t want to lose my freedom.

You have been called 'too much'
just for feeling.
Silenced,
when all you wanted was to be heard.

You’ve fought the invisible.
You’ve overcome the sadness
that had no name.
You climbed out of the pit of depression.
You walked away from a love
that called you a burden
just for existing with emotion.

And yet —
or maybe because of all this —
you stand here now,
ready to take a step
greater than any step
you’ve ever taken before.

Perhaps what holds you back
is not lack of ability,
but the ache of becoming vast
after being made so small for so long.

Understand this, sweet girl:
no one sabotages themselves because they want to fail.
They sabotage themselves
because they fear rejection
for daring to shine.

And so your soul whispers:
“What if I could fly a little farther?”

Let your blood remind you
that you are still alive.
No soldier waits to feel confident
before entering battle.

I have conquered silence.
I have conquered erasure.
I have conquered the darkness of the mind.
Now I conquer my freedom —
because it is mine by right.

I will no longer live half of myself.

Sometimes I look toward the horizon
and there is nothing—
only a line.

And it scares me.

Because nothing
can be just nothing,
or it can be everything.

And the line
can be just a line,
or it can be the beginning
of a journey—
not the arrival.

I’m afraid—
afraid of the new,
afraid of being alone.

I think that when I move
into the new house,
the emptiness will settle in
so deeply
I might break.

I just hope
this weight on my chest
isn’t here to stay.

We could have
a second chance—
to meet again,
to date,
to get engaged,
to marry
the right way.

What God has joined together,
let no one
ever separate.

Do you want
to try again?

I crave your poetry, L.
It makes me smile—
it makes me wish
he would write the same things for me,
that he would be devoted to me
the way you are.

You don’t know I went back to him.
I know it would **** you.
I know I’m distant—
I’m peeling off the band-aid slowly.

It could be under warm water,
where the wound would soften
and there’d be no pain.
But I choose to tear it off dry,
just to feel
every fragment of hurt.

Because deep down,
I think I’m a *******.

I’m so confused.
I feel my body fading.

I confessed my sin—
I was welcomed,
not judged.

But I know
I put myself in a hard place.
I’m hurting you
with my indecision.
I’m hurting you
with my choices.

Part of me just wants
to disappear.
To fade.
To die.

Yes—
you have your issues.
You made mistakes.
And so did I.

I don’t want this
to be the speech
of an emotional dependent
who only blames herself
and forgets
that a relationship
is built by two people.

From now on,
every “i” will have its dot,
and every accent
will be marked—

as we write
our story
again.

I write poetry
born from a feeling, an emotion—
I’m not even sure what.

Almost like a kind of rapture,
the words come,
and I pour them onto paper
or into my notes app.

I wonder if one day
the poems will come with nothing—
existing just to exist.

Will this feeling, emotion,
or whatever it is,
ever arrive
separate from the poetry?

I feel it’s all
right there—
within my reach,
yet so far away.

Goals, dreams,
all those shiny
self-help
and healthy-living promises—

I can’t be that person.

Someone help me.

I chose you—
different from before.
Not to be saved,
but because in you
I find freedom.

You asked me:
if every card,
every oracle,
God,
every sign
pointed to you—
and my heart
pointed to you—

would I have the courage
to send you the red heart?

Yes.
I have the courage.

Incredible—
I can make poetry out of anything:
from the tree,
the wheat,
the chaff,
the sea,
the stars,
the sky itself
in all its infinite beauty.

From the good, the bad,
the light and the dark—
everything in nature
becomes verse in my hands.

Will you be part
of this strange art of mine?
Because your eyes
belong to another world—
you’re not from here,
I’m sure of it.

If you were, I would have seen you before,
and I think I would have fallen for you
again
and again.

It’s hard not to look.
I don’t even hear your footsteps
when they pass me by—
heading toward someone else, of course.

But that’s fine.
Even with my skin shivering,
I make your chest my target,
and like darts,
I throw my verses.

It’s always easier to write poetry
about a masterpiece of nature—
but one thing I know for certain:
you are not from here.

We were arguing
about whether we should have kids.
I wanted it so badly—
but as you’ve said before,
if it were up to me,
I’d have everything yesterday.

I don’t know how to wait.
My feet never touch the ground.
We’d have eight cats,
five dogs,
ten children, and more—
because that’s who I am.
Intense.
I want to live everything at once,
all tangled together.

Maybe being with you
is killing that in me.
Where is the girl
who, when she wanted something,
wouldn’t stop until she got it?

She’s gone.
I lost her.
I can’t find her anywhere.
I searched in all my hiding places—
she’s dead.

And sadly,
she’s no phoenix.
I wish she were.

I killed her.
I was an accomplice in her ******.
How did I let that happen?
I wish I could go back in time.

How can the world change so much
after high school?
I know—it’s cliché.
But my God,
how things have changed.

And yet I’m still there,
trying to see that girl again
who no longer exists.

I tell myself
that as long as she’s alive,
she lives in me—
a comfort,
a lie.

When will I reinvent myself?
When will I finally give birth
to what I truly want?
Do I even know
what I want?

Last night, we made love.
I was wearing my baby-pink bra,
my white lace *******.

I was surprised you didn’t take it all off at once.
I think you liked how innocent I seemed to you
after so long.

You kissed me deeply,
touched my whole body.
I liked that.

You were concerned about my pleasure—
you wanted me to come.
I didn’t.

But the whole experience
was still worth it.

We’re good now,
like we used to be.

There is a goddess in me—
long asleep.

She woke.
I fed her.
I listened to her voice.
She sang the most beautiful songs to me.

But then I put her back to sleep
and forgot her.

Now she has awakened again,
and she sees—
if it were up to me,
nothing would change.

I believe this goddess
is the lost child within me,
braver than I am,
pushing me toward the choices
I was so afraid to make.

Living
was one of them.

It aches in my gut
when I think about
how you must be feeling.

Your wife left.
Your wife didn’t want you anymore.

Are you blaming yourself?
Have you been crying—
like you cried to me that day,
saying the pain was worse
than when you lost your brother?

Is it because I’m still alive?
Because the possibility
of something being done
still exists?

Calm now—
the waters are still.

Until one day
they will stir again.

I need to hold myself gently,
to know for sure
it’s okay to return,
it’s okay to leave—

as long as I’m aligned
with what I want.

You weren’t just an affair—
you were the child inside me
screaming,
“I want to live.”

And how did she show it?
By falling in love with you.

That’s why,
when I was with you,
something still felt incomplete.

Because it wasn’t you.
It was me.

Unfortunately—
it was me.

I realized
our relationship
will be built
on evolution—

spiritual evolution,
fraternal evolution,
loving evolution.

Because that’s what we are:
together,
we heal.

I am
deliberately
destroying our family.

They say a wise woman
builds her home—
I am removing every brick
we so carefully
stacked.

But do not blame
my wisdom,
or the lack of it.

If only I could show you
all the possible endings
of our story—
the ones I’ve built and rebuilt
in my mind and heart—
and still
it would not be enough
for you to forgive me,
for me to forgive myself,
for the shame
of becoming
a beggar
pleading for life.

Jesus, son of David—
have mercy on me.

Poetry was an accident in my life.
I wasn’t looking
for this way to express myself.

I admit I like it.
I don’t write every day—
only when I’m truly inspired.
I should write more often;
it’s good for me.

It’s just hard…
Sometimes living passively
feels more pleasurable
than actually doing something with life.

When I write,
I want to be honest.
I want people to feel uncomfortable
when they read my words—
because reading all this
is too much.

Because standing so close
to someone else’s vulnerability
feels strange.

I want to be sincere
in every, every
single word,
because I feel I’m too big
for anyone to hold.
I can’t even hold myself.

And I want, in the future,
to read my own words
and feel uncomfortable
with myself—
because by then,
I’ll be someone new.

This was supposed to be my day—
a day to be happy.

I ended up alone.
Again.
Disgracefully.
Inevitably.

Every choice I’ve made
has brought me here.

I try to fool myself,
saying it’s not my fault—
blame my parents,
they raised me this way.

But I’m no longer a child.
Or at least,
I should have grown,
matured,
evolved.

At the end of my day,
the pleasure should have been mine.
But instead, I undressed,
put you in my mouth,
and gave you pleasure.

Happy birthday to me.

You were a mirror
I needed to see myself clearly.

Yes, you had your part in the story.
Whether you came from heaven
or from hell—
it’s all right.
Your purpose was fulfilled.

I didn’t choose
to marry the wrong man.
I let myself
live the marriage
in the wrong way—
unconsciously.

By showing me
I deserved more,
you weren’t necessarily saying
he was wrong for me—
but that I had been
treating myself wrong
all along.

I let go.
I let go of the story I keep trying to tell—
the one where, near the end,
someone comes to save me.

I’ve already learned,
in the most painful ways,
that I will always save myself.
It is my responsibility,
and mine alone.

So I let go
of that narrative where I remain
the little girl.

Now I am a woman,
and I choose to write
a different story.

I am the worst murderer of all—
I killed my entire family,
but let them
stay alive.

There is only:
Happy Birthday,
Happy Mother’s Day,
Happy Father’s Day,
Merry Christmas,
Happy New Year.

There is no:
I miss you,
I love you,
When will you come?

I dug their graves
and buried them deep in the ground.
They wounded me immensely.
I gift them
with my nonexistence.

Sometimes I stop and think—
my God, what am I doing?

I tore away all the structures beneath me
and chose to walk on sand—
or on water.

Why?
Why?
Why put myself
in this place of despair,
this ache of uncertainty?

I could have stayed
right where I was
and everything
would have kept flowing.

Wouldn’t it?

I feel betrayed.
You wanted me back
and used faith to lure me in.

And I,
searching for answers in God,
fell for it—
like a fool.

So I came back to you.