I lost it again—the moment I meant to capture. It slipped through my fingers just as I reached for it. I tried to focus, but my eyes were closed. In the blink of an eye, like a whisper, everything shifted. The light changed, someone sneezed, the earth rotated a fraction—and then, just like that, it was gone. I thought I could write about it, wrap it in language and keep it somehow. But none of the words I knew came close to describing how it looked, how it felt, how it smelled, tasted. I tried to invent new ones, but … Continue reading I Lost it Again

Talvez o amor se construa nas entrelinhas do cotidiano, nas pequenas coisas que, em nossa pressa, deixamos de valorizar. É nas simplicidades que ele se revela, como um segredo sussurrado pelo vento. Tudo bem, mesmo sem compreendê-lo completamente, a beleza sempre encontra um jeito de se manifestar. Ela surge nos momentos mais inesperados, como um raio de sol que atravessa as nuvens após a tempestade. Por isso, o amor brilha intensamente nas palavras não ditas, no silêncio compartilhado, no calor de um abraço e na doce melancolia da saudade. Ele está presente em cada gesto, em cada olhar, em cada … Continue reading Talvez

I want to live in a house made of poetry. Each wall, each corner, each crevice would be a stanza, a verse, a line that sings to my soul. In the night, I would sleep under blankets sewn from poetry, feeling the gentle caress of words as they lull me into dreams woven from the finest metaphors and similes. My dreams would be a tapestry of poetic imagery, a dance of rhythm and rhyme. In the morning, I would bathe myself in poetry. The words would flow over me, cleansing my spirit and invigorating my mind. Poetry would seep into … Continue reading July 2024 – Living in a House of Poetry II

There is, and perhaps will always be, a border no bridge can cross — an unspoken line between who we are and what we wear: the skin that carries our stories, the shades that whisper history. Your cream glows quiet in the early hours, a softness painted by gentle suns. My brownness, in contrast, is steeped in heat — the kind passed down through fire, through generations who danced in resistance and rested in thunder. You do not burn the way I do. You do not carry the echo of battle in your pores. We lie tangled, breast over breast, … Continue reading The Space Between Skins

In the hush of midnight, I imagine the advice my mother never gave—less about routines and more about soul-fire. Maybe she’d have murmured, “Baby, never apologize for loving too harsh.” Because love isn’t meant to tiptoe—it should rage like a wildfire, erasing past verses and penning new ones in ink made of longing and thunder. Every kiss, every promise, a fierce declaration that you lived, burned, and began again. She might’ve taught me that craving more of life is no sin. “You owe it to yourself,” she’d say, “to chase dawn, dance in storms, and sip the ocean on your … Continue reading Advices

Se algum dia minha história for contada, diga que caminhei entre as estrelas. Que meus passos, embora terrenos, sempre buscaram o brilho do infinito. Que meus sonhos, vastos e luminosos, se entrelaçaram com a poeira cósmica, criando constelações de esperança e coragem. Diga que, mesmo nas noites mais escuras, eu olhei para o céu e encontrei força nas estrelas cintilantes. Que cada desafio enfrentado foi uma estrela cadente, um desejo realizado, uma prova de que a luz sempre prevalece sobre a escuridão. Que minha jornada foi guiada pela luz das estrelas, e que, em cada momento de dúvida, eu encontrei … Continue reading Se um dia …

I’ve come to realize that I haven’t always been gentle around other people’s vulnerable wounds. My big ugly tail, the one I drag behind me, is my tendency to get self-righteous. When I see someone else’s big ugly tail, I make myself “superior,” casting myself as “right” and others as “wrong.” My ego, whom I’ve named Morgana Bells—the indomitable and often bitchy—convinces me that I shouldn’t have to tiptoe around someone else’s stinky wound. Yet, I’m learning that sometimes walking on eggshells around someone’s raw wound is the perfect opportunity to practice compassion and to demonstrate love. It’s a delicate … Continue reading My Big Ugly Tail

It was the kind of afternoon that turns the sky into poetry before the pen ever touches paper. The clouds had gathered above Barueri with theatrical urgency, casting everything below in a grayscale hush. I hadn’t planned to write. That day, I was just watching — from behind the safety of my windowpane — as the storm rolled in like an old soul with a story to tell. Then, the thunder clapped. Not the usual kind that jars the heart with sound, but the kind that reaches into you and rearranges what you feel. I stepped outside as if pulled … Continue reading Chronicle of a Strike of Love

C’è una verità che non urla, che non si mostra. È quella che vive nei miei silenzi. La parte più vera di me non si affaccia con gesti plateali, ma si nasconde negli impulsi che trattengo, nelle emozioni che si accumulano come nuvole prima della tempesta. Ogni pensiero non detto è una stanza chiusa a chiave. Non per tutti. Solo chi ha il coraggio di avvicinarsi davvero, di guardare oltre la superficie, riesce a vedere la mappa segreta che porta a ciò che sono. A volte mi definiscono “misteriosa”, “chiusa”, “difficile da leggere”. Ma la verità è che mi dono … Continue reading Dentro il Silenzio, la Mia Verità

Cruel. Sometimes life is just so fucking cruel. It doesn’t knock. It breaks in. Uninvited and unrelenting. And when it does, you don’t get answers—you get echoes. You get silence where there should be reason. A twisted kind of theater where the worst things happen without cause and the best moments vanish before you realize they were good. There are days I want to grab life by the throat, shove it against the wall, and scream:“What the fuck are you doing, you sick bastard!” Because what else is there to do when things fall apart, not dramatically, but quietly—in broken … Continue reading The Cruel Silence of Life