will everyone abuse me?
no one ever touched my body
but they all took a piece of me
I guess that’s why I’m empty

I feel like I’m about to explode
Not from something bad
But from joy, yes
The very thing I once judged
Turned against me
I had no idea the twist life had in store
I spoke so poorly of poetry
Old thing, boring thing
But now my words
Only know how to be poetic
What was poetry again?
Ah
Yes, my life is now this
Everything is now song and poetry
Life is more beautiful, more colorful
My heart has learned
to love speaking

Sometimes I ask myself
Why I can’t win this fight,
How to win this fight.

And then I realize
It’s about letting go,
Lowering the importance.

But the urge to fight will return—
My body already knows this.

Now that I know
I can simply release,
If I choose to fall back into this fight,
I’ll be keeping the victim’s story alive.

And that’s no longer
My story to tell.

Lost the battle, won the war

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.

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.

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 decided to run a test
throw a few words on paper
see what would happen
and I was amazed
by what I found

sinking into cushions
i ask myself
is this silence
a wound
or a gift

my friends have vanished
into their own worlds
this is what love does
it swallows people whole

maybe the absence
is my reflection
me and the glowing screen
sharing secrets
until sleep

i whisper lies
humans were made
to be islands
i tell myself
and i try
to believe it

my alarm rings
I turn it off
on autopilot
I stay in bed
eyes closed
I need to live this day
yes, my soul says
get up, I tell my body
it stays in the same place
so I remain
in the same place

Accepting that I might need medication
for the rest of my life
hurt
But it hurt less
than
trying
to quit it

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.

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.

I wish
all of my blood
would cover the kitchen floor
so I’d know
the end had come

I find it beautiful
Something small, hidden
unknown to anyone, becoming something vast
I think I have a knack for this
The words are flowing
I’m no longer trapped behind a dam
I’m free, thirsty to explore new paths
I will pour myself into other waters
and meet new horizons
I want more—so much more!
I am thirsty
I didn’t know I had been dehydrated for so long
This is what I needed
As a certain author once said—yes, you warned me
I didn’t have to go so far
My treasure wasn’t distant
It was right here
where I belong

I thought only in prose
I could be whoever I wanted to be
How mistaken I was—here too!
I can be a thousand and one things
And you? Can you be who you are without art?
I doubt it
But if you show up before me painted in gold
I’ll believe
Yes, I’ll believe
The world is mad

I can feel your nerves from here.
You didn’t expect our love story
to take this turn.

It may seem insignificant,
but that’s how life works —
when we least expect it,
it sweeps our feet from under us.

They say love is forever
while it lasts.
I guess we’re somewhere in the middle.
We’ve earned a C.

I won’t text you,
or show up out of nowhere
in your life again.
We don’t need to repeat this script.

But I hope you make peace
with our memories,
with the good moments we shared.
Those, at least,
will be eternal.

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 realized
our relationship
will be built
on evolution—

spiritual evolution,
fraternal evolution,
loving evolution.

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

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 *******.

You thought I would
wilt like a flower
disintegrate
and become part of the soil
I’m sorry, love
You messed with a phoenix
You turned me into ashes
but I will rise again
better than I was before
So know that every time
you knock me down
you only make me
stronger

I accept it.
You’re doing everything
to dim my image,
to rise above,
to play the victim,
to show the world
how much you suffered,
how cruel I must have been.

As if I, too,
hadn’t wept,
hadn’t begged,
hadn’t broken
and rebuilt myself
just to make us work—
two puzzle pieces
that never truly fit.

It seems you need this
more than I do.
Some people must turn you
into the villain
so they can crown themselves
the hero of their own lives.

So I accept it.
I will be
the villain of our story.

I must confess —
I reached the gates of heaven,
peeked inside,
and chose to turn back.

You weren’t there,
so it wasn’t worth it.

It’s not as if I hadn’t tried;
I know I was a good person.
But this surprise
I did not expect.

I didn’t want to make this public —
people wouldn’t understand.
How could I give up glory?
But you were more glorious.

I knew sooner or later
this would come to an end.
I hope you’re crying for me,
because I slit my wrists for you,
hoping to find myself
alive.

I want to do other things
the chores call me
but each time it’s harder
poetry has tangled me in such a way that
ah…
I just want to keep drinking from it
forever

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.

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 feel this force
pulling me down.

What am I doing?
It’s killing me.
I’m hurting so many people.
I’m hurting myself.

I can’t break free from you.
Am I being overdramatic?

You asked me
to simplify the complex.
But I am complex—
I cannot
simplify myself.

They called us weak,
but we returned brighter—
diamonds no longer hidden,
thunder no longer hushed.

I walk into the storm,
shoulders heavy,
yet my spirit unyielding.

The world may strike,
but I carry a kingdom in my veins.
Every step forward
is a promise kept:
we will reach the home
beyond the river.

Why won’t it cut?
I’ve run the knife so many times
but nothing comes out of my thigh
at least,
my tears have stopped falling

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 don’t want crumbs
I want gold
wheat
honey
the finest and rarest in this world
I am not cheap
My mental health has cost me dearly
My tears
are priceless
I’d like to see you pay for them all
I cried for everyone
But I cried most for myself
for letting me cry for those who didn’t deserve it
for giving space
and letting them destroy my peace
I owe nothing to anyone anymore
Yet everyone owes me
Starting with the one who writes to you now
I owe myself
a great deal of love

The life we built together
feels centuries away
I can’t remember it anymore
but I know it existed
Sometimes
I’m startled
I no longer have you
Sometimes
it makes me desperate
Sometimes
it makes me
incredibly happy

I was thinking about the hornero bird today
how it builds its little house
Really, God gives it everything
just like that, for free
So why doesn’t He do the same for me?
Tell me where to find the clay
install in my mind
the coordinates
to build my home
and be
happy in it

Everything in life is a process
It’s more about letting go and learning to stay
There is no control
Only cycles and adaptation
Here’s the question:
Do trees cry when their leaves fall in autumn?
They mix into the ground
a blessing to the soil
a party for some passing child
Even the tree understands
that not everything is meant to stay
But from what goes away
a new beginning is born in its place

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 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.