Deep Blue

They ruined my name before they ever knew me. Twisted it with foreign tongues and hollow eyes, turning something sacred into a punchline. And somehow, that was enough. Enough to bleed cruelty without context, to carve judgment into the skin of someone whose only offense was being named, being alive. I’ll never understand that kind of meanness, that hunger to diminish.

Every time I fall, someone is there to grind me further down. As if pain is a game and I’m the chosen target. Words—they bruise deeper than fists ever could. I’ve imagined the sting of concrete more bearable than being told that my passion, the very core of me, is worthless. The world has taught me that hatred is loud, persistent, and often unprovoked. And even when love surrounds me, I find myself tuning into the one frequency that aches—the voice that says I’ll never be enough.

But my father once told me revenge isn’t fire and fury—it’s triumph. “Show them,” he said, “not with rage, but with excellence.” So I rise, again and again, not to prove them wrong, but to prove to myself that I’m right. That love isn’t spectacle or sex or possession—it’s the quiet resilience of choosing yourself in the face of their noise. That solitude can be a sanctuary, and believing in your own reflection is the fiercest form of defiance.

So, let them speak. Let them spit and jeer and smirk from the sidelines. I’ll carry my wounds like medals. I am my own best friend, my own witness, my own champion. And if I love what I do—if I can look at myself and feel pride—then no verdict they offer will ever outweigh the power of that truth. 🙏🏾❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer