She cries through her letters, aches in her lines, commas, and hyperboles. Her pencil is a tattered garment, gifting beautiful scraps of detail. She finds her victories and poetry in others, but never within her own heart. She blames the sky, the earth, and the thorns for her misalignments. Lost, she forgets her guide and her map. In her confusion, the small voice in the depths of her soul whispers of her losses.

She burns the manual of well-being, of rules, all in the name of the rebellion of being. Rebirth is now just a word in the dictionary. Solitary, she contemplates her fears among the stars, like a moon floating in the sky, crying out in the vacuum for rescue. In her texts, she decides who will smile, building castles of dreams in tales of naive and happy characters. Tears are her mark, her folly, her detachment, and her solace.

She demands forgiveness from life without having the balance for it, nor anyone to demand it from. Not knowing her own worth, she hopes only to not receive the short end of this tied, bitter, and suffering life. She is all the Marias, all bearing the same weight on their shoulders, hoping for daily joys between her sobs, to be reborn in her eternal poetry, because thorns do not hurt the flower; on the contrary, they elevate the soul… ❤

©️ Beatriz Esmer