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m3dus4 Jul 18
jericoacoara, brasil

i used to think paradise was loud.
grand.
someplace with fireworks or a sign that said you’ve arrived.
but here
paradise whispers.
it hums like wind over dunes and the hush of tides kissing mangroves.

it starts slow:
bare feet on red-dust roads,
a lime cut open for caipirinha,
salt tangled in your hair
before you’ve even unpacked.

pedra furada stands like a portal
not just a rock, but a wound the sea never stopped carving.
you walk there at low tide,
thinking of all the things erosion teaches us about time,
and how light, at the right angle, makes absence look sacred.

at sunset, the many locals climb the dune like pilgrims.
all of us waiting,
as if watching the sun slip beneath the ocean
might give us permission to let go of something, too.
and when it disappears, we clap.
not for the sun, but for ourselves.
for choosing this place. for arriving.

in lagoa do paraíso,
you swing in a hammock half-submerged,
water licking your skin like a secret.
you forget your name for a while.
only remember the temperature of turquoise
and the ache of muscles finally unclenched.

there’s a bent tree they call preguiça: lazy.
but it’s not lazy. it’s free.
it grew toward the wind and stayed there.

god, maybe that’s what we’re doing too.

capoeira beats call you to the beach at dusk,
bodies moving like poetry before it’s written.
then forró after dark,
barefoot spins under fairy lights,
strangers holding each other like old friends
or future stories.

in the mangroves of guriú,
you glide silently between roots that braid water to earth.
they say seahorses live here, invisible to the rushed eye.
maybe you do too,
the version of you that still believes in quiet magic.

there’s a night when the stars are too many to name.
you lie on wet sand,
and the sky reflects itself around you
like the universe is closing in
just to hear your breath.
and maybe it does.
you make a wish on a bird instead of a star.
you don’t know why,
you just do.

and out of nowhere,
someone hands you a board.
you fly down a dune laughing.
you dance.
you say nothing for hours.
you say everything with a glance.
you remember who you are
before the rush and alarms and musts.

you begin to wonder:
what if the way out wasn’t loud at all?
what if escape looked like sunburned shoulders,
wind chapped lips,
and the sweet, slow ache of coming home to yourself?

so tell me,
how’s the escape plan coming along?
because this map drawn in sand and silence?
it looks a lot like freedom.

m.
Before you start reading:
None of these messages were ever sent. Niki made them up. Niki is me.
She’s scared of losing a friendship — so she writes instead of speaking.
That way, she never risks an answer.
But maybe, if she writes enough, she won’t forget what it felt like.


Niki
24 May 2025
00:04
age 14

YOU ARE SO PERFECT
not because of respect or intellect
or the one hundred you got on the exam
and it’s not that i don’t give a ****
about those things
but i DO care about how you pull my strings
your voice so soft so gentle
your mind so judgemental
you’ve got everything figured out
will never be too loud
nor too quiet you say what you must
but don’t want everything to be discussed
you know what you want and expect
you know the impact
i wanted to be like you so bad
now that i think about it it’s sad
but you’re a musical in a world of songs you’re not right in a world full of wrongs
you look so stunning so pretty
pretty like stars outside of my city
that’s a weird place for me to draw a line
this city is as much yours as it’s mine
but you would rather see darkness
outside of it while i like the starkness
sure i talk and smile and laugh
but you’re the confident bibliotaph
you’re the only person i show my poetry
i hope you see how special that is to me
now i established all of that
yet still didn’t hint what i’m getting at
something i will never be able to do
is measure or stand up to you
and i grew to accept it  
i LOVE you but it still HURTS a little bit.


Poppy Piume
5 July 2025
19:37
age 15

YOU ARE SO LEFT
steal songs personalities commit theft?
you have opinions engraved in your soul
i came out to you then felt a hole
rainbows on your bags socks and hats
you know “facts” never numbers or stats
i don’t want to fight
you don’t want to admit i’m right
you’re supportive but supported too
in some ways i’m jealous of you
you’ve been doing some healing
sharing what you’re feeling
i hope you’re happy and starstruck
while i am trying not to cry and feel stuck
maybe you can’t see
i hate you making fun of me
for marks i worked hard to get
things i wish i would have said
dreams i want to achieve some day
then i’ll be free from the things you say
the songs we both listen to
expectations set by you
the words you write
i’ll live in darkness without you’re light
but you might repeat “i’m not right, i’m left”
i’ll realise you did commit theft
and i’ll learn to love your art
as i figure out you STOLE MY HEART.


Niki
2 November 2027
23:41
age 16

I AM SORRY
that’s what I’ll say once I know the story
still won’t really know what to do
but might tell you how I felt about you
it will be too late
we’ll convince ourselves it wasn’t fate
you’ll have a lovely girlfriend by that time
I’ll be seeing a guy and my love won’t rhyme.


Poppy Piume
13 December 2030
01:30
age 20

I FEEL BETRAYED
i wish we would have stayed
this wouldn’t be such a ***** up
if we were still in that city but we grew up
you used to hate everything you now are
how did we get this far
from what we used to be
little you would want to unsee
she literally wouldn’t allow
the boyfriend you have got now
the small me would be sad as well
she has so many new stories to tell
but never got over
the way that other girl drove her
mad crazy all *******
YOU taught me this attitude.
I am so proud of this. Please let me know what you think
Tiálen Resan May 18
Both sending letters,
they tore their love apart—
each line like a "don’t leave me,"
they looked like real love letters.

Reading between the lines,
you’d see who played the part.
The strange thing is, the culprit
was not of either heart.

Jealousy, the silent fire,
gave context and reasons,
possessing their prey,
it moved without control.

Can love be found again,
by one who shared the blame?
Can a fractured soul find wholeness
through forgiveness, love, and name?

Your sorrowed letters shake me,
each farewell cuts me through.
Some of us never get letters—
not of friendship, nor of loss,
much less of love from you.
Full translation of Cartas y culpables, originally written in Spanish by Tiálen. AI-assisted and guided.
Tiálen Resan May 17
Los dos enviando cartas
rompían su relación,
parecían un no me dejes
reales cartas de amor.

Mirando entre palabras
verías al culpable,
lo extraño del culpable
ninguno de ese amor.

Los celos crean
contexto y razón,
poseyendo a sus víctimas
accionan planes sin control.

¿Será posible volver al amor
siendo un coautor de tal error?
¿un espíritu quebrado unirá sus trozos
con palabras de amor y perdón?

Conmociona mi espíritu
tus tristes cartas de adiós,
algunos no recibimos cartas
ni por quiebre, ni amistad,
menos siquiera por amor.
January May 13
Dear books,
I love the feeling I get when the series of sentences you hold make me feel understood in the perfect manner.
To be honest, I sometimes envy that those words didn't come out of me
but mostly?
I love you for carrying what I failed or never even tried to bring out of my mind.
I hope you realise your importance and how much you mean and how it brings comfort to me especially at times when I feel low, you're always there.
I'm sorry you have to wait on a coffee stain sometimes or even untouched under heavier books
but mostly I love you for always being there.
Love,
January
Still mask, that's what's left- a face,
A canvas for words I've never said.
Your fingers tracing the lace,
The only  thing I ever dread.

You place the letters by my side,
Silent tear rolling down your cheek,
Words tangled in webs, trying to hide,
Knowing that I'll never speak.

You lay white lilies by ice-cold hands,
Close to cover the letters as it lands.
5/5/25
is there any cure for love?  
I asked a bartender
once in a town
where even the pigeons
looked tired.  
he laughed, poured whiskey,  
and said
“yeah—time, or a bullet.”
but time just teaches you
how to miss her cleaner,  
and bullets are too polite.  
love isn’t a wound,
it’s a habit—  
like lighting a cigarette after ***  
or checking your phone for nothing.  
she’s not coming back.  
but the ache of her
still knows the way back,
still writes poems on your spine
and unbuttons your rest.  
is there any cure for love?  
maybe.  
but no one takes it.  
we like the fever...
ab ja na Apr 19
we will gift each other daggers and stab a hole in each others chest. slide our hands into it and grab at our throbbing hearts. feel that? pulsating life
painted scarlet
tasting like rust,
like us.
bury me in you, will you?
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