They told me to write my heart out —
as if bleeding onto paper could reveal what lies buried beneath the noise.
So I did.

I sliced it open with verbs and vowels, let it hemorrhage on the page.
Not for the sake of healing,
but for the sake of knowing.

And in that mess of ink and memories,
two truths surfaced, raw and untamed:
One —
that no matter how I sculpt a sentence,
your name lingers in the clay.

And two —
that this heart, though cavernous and echoing in its emptiness,
is paradoxically bursting at the seams…
with you

You, in the margins.
You, in the rhythm of every line.
You, in the silence between words.

I wrote until my soul felt emptied,
until the sadness stopped pretending it wasn’t love.
And even then —
with everything I’ve spilled,
everything I’ve mourned —

you remained.
Unwritten, yet always there.
No matter how much I let it bleed.

©️ Beatriz Esmer