She once spoke of forgotten truths, her heart filled with the sweet scent of inspiration. Her desire was to save others, unaware that she herself was lost. With words, she gently dried the tears on others’ faces, while she drowned in her own sorrows. So many stories consumed her, intertwining with her very being. She played the heroine, saving others, even though she felt like a bandit. Poetry became her refuge, blurring the lines between reality and illusion. Her once vibrant days were now but a carnival of disguise. Through her tales of yesteryear, she twisted stories into a bitter existence, holding hands with sadness as if it were her own flesh and blood. Her tears stained the pages of her letters, her pain etched into every line.

Her pencil, like a tattered garment, revealed beautiful details within its rags. In every person she encountered, she sought victory and lyricism, except within the confines of her own chest. Blaming the sky, the earth, and the thorns for their discord, she had lost her way and forgotten her map. The manual for happiness burned away, leaving nothing but ashes. Rebirth now only existed as a mere entry in a dictionary. Like a lone astronaut surrounded by fearsome stars, she screamed into the vast emptiness, begging for rescue.

In the texts she created, some would smile while others would weep. For her, tears became her emphasis. She begged forgiveness from life itself, even when she lacked the means to do so. Lost and uncertain of her own worth, she simply hoped to remain unchanged, seeking solace in everyday joys amidst her sobs. She longed to be reborn through her eternal poetry, believing that a thorn could never truly harm a flower.

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer