She navigated the depths of her own forgotten truths, those that her heart once inspired like perfumes in days gone by. She sought the salvation of others while losing herself in her own labyrinth. Her hands, always ready to dry others’ tears with sweet words, couldn’t contain the sea of sadness that drowned her.

In her stories, she got lost, weaving plots where she saved heroes but saw herself as the villain. She became a poet, adorning herself with illusions, unable to distinguish the carnivals of her fantasies from the white days of reality. The false narratives of the past soured her stories, and her rhymes, once sweet, now hurt. She walked hand in hand with sadness, treating it like a capricious daughter.

She cried in her letters, felt pain in the lines. Her pencil, a tattered garment, offered scraps of beautiful details. She found victory and lyricism in everyone but herself. She blamed the sky, the earth, and the thorns for her misfortunes. She lost her guide, forgot her map, burned the manual of well-being. Rebirth was just a word in the dictionary.

Like a solitary astronaut, she contemplated fear among the stars, crying out for rescue in the vacuum of emptiness. In her texts, she drew lots to decide who would smile and who would cry; for her, the tear was her trademark. She demanded forgiveness from life without having the balance for it. Not knowing her worth anymore, she hoped only not to get shortchanged, longed for daily joys between her sobs, and to be reborn in her eternal poetry, because, after all, a thorn does not hurt a flower. 😔

©️ Beatriz Esmer