The only thing
you two have in common
is your sign:
Pisces.

And I’m the mermaid
who’s already chosen
which one to keep—
but still,
I wanted you both.

After everything
didn’t you learn anything?

You were supposed
to be healing by now,
reflecting on the mistakes,
on the love you gave
that was never solid—
only wind.

It was not true,
even if you are certain it was.
It wasn’t, love.
It was emptiness,
a hunger for affection.

If you had stopped,
just for a moment,
to think about it,
you would have known too.

You shouldn’t be writing
about us,
about our love,
our undone plans.

You should be writing
about your traumas.

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.

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.

The truth is,
sometimes
victory lies
in leaving the past behind.

You can’t move forward
when you’re tied to the depths
of the ocean.

They say Christ
casts forgiven sins down there—
but it feels like I’m leaving
all my sins
tied like stones to my feet,
sinking with them.

If Christ exists,
He has forgiven me.
But I have not forgiven myself.

I’m like a submarine,
lost in some sea,
in the dark,
sending out signals
for someone on the surface
to hear me.

No one will come.

I should have learned by now—
princes on white horses
are a myth.

I am the prince.
I am the white horse.
I save myself.

You’re not letting me go.
You’re making everything harder,
slowing down my plans.

Do you still miss me?

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.

My mind
keeps whispering
that what I’ve done
is unforgivable.

— I am not worthy

I think we had
the most honest conversation in ages—
and it was beautiful.

I cried.
I think you cried too.

But I loved your honesty,
your open heart.
We’re growing.
We’re maturing together.
And that is priceless.

I’ve written about this before—
the missing piece.

Yes, the piece is already here.
I don’t need to search for anything.

Who said emptiness must be filled?
Who said it’s even empty?
Couldn’t it be a wound
that only needs to heal?

I am already whole.
I just need to be aware of it—
and that
is the hardest part.

I can be a woman
I can be feminine
I can be a girlfriend
I can be a wife
I can be a mother
I can be all these things at once
and still be me
I can be everything I want to be
not to save someone
not to heal someone
but because this is who I am
it’s how I came into this world

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.

When I was little
I wanted to write romance novels
It was all I read
But my heart won’t let me
No matter how many love stories I start
My soulmate is poetry

You told me
to gather all my things
and leave.

I did.
I didn’t hesitate.

It was as if you had opened
the cage door
that had been keeping me trapped.

I guess I’m sorry
it wasn’t me
who said it first.
But I’m glad—
because this time,
I didn’t let the chance
slip away.

I’m certain
That to you,
I was a dandelion
You held too tightly
In your hands.

The wind came
And carried all my petals away,
Leaving only my memory behind.

Know this—
I’ve flown to a better place,
Even if that place
Is far from you.

A date?
I don’t know.

Your love—
is it fake?
Maybe.

Why did you take my number?
Just to know.

And now,
what will this be?
Perhaps a story
already fading into smoke.

Let’s pretend
we never did a thing.

"Are you on ***?"
"I'm talking to you nicely and you come at me with rudeness"
This… is you
reacting to the version of me
that sets boundaries

One day,
these tears will stop falling.
The well will run dry,
and I will be able
to smile again.

It took me a while to understand
that life happens in active mode
not passive
Everything is beautiful
in my mind
But lying in bed
or sitting on the couch
won’t bring that beauty
into my life

I am the Samaritan woman
I understand her completely now
Every day I went to the well to draw water
But I never truly drank
Drank to quench the soul
I found my Christ—stunned
Dehydrated
Needy
It’s too much, I can’t contain the emotion
I want
more
more
more
more
and never stop…

You found this book on the last shelf
of an old, dusty bookstore
Yes
I didn’t write this to be a success
Only those who truly want to be healed
will find me

I’ve begun to realize
that great minds
don’t need a thousand words
to change a life
Often
ten
within a poem
can light up
the entire world

My cat starts to meow
He sniffs my nose
then makes a nest on my chest
while I’m lying down
He rests his head right over my heart
He’s seen me cry all day
He knows I want to die
But there he is
reminding me
that my heart
is still beating

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.

You are not my daughter—
you are the daughter
of his late brother.

But everyone used to say
you looked like me,
that you could have easily
been mine.

And that was fine.
I called you princess,
because you are.

I don’t know
when you will realize this,
but the place you’re growing up in
is a hard one.

I won’t say I miss you,
but I wonder—
do you ever miss me?

Because in the few moments
we shared,
you clung to me,
you painted my face,
brushed my hair,
and for a while—
I became a princess
in your kingdom.

I hope the little time we had
was enough to show you
there is more to life.

Never stop dreaming, Nic.
You can go far.
All it takes
is believing.

I’ve been trying
to be so strong these past days
that I haven’t allowed myself
even a single second
to be
merely weak.

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?

is there anything wrong
with being just
a spectator of life?
watching the living go
the dead return
not letting it shake me
never caught off guard
just letting it flow
as if some great sage
had been reborn in me
and nothing was new
under the sun

"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?

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.

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.