My mind is a quiet house at the edge of town—lonely, perhaps, but not unloved. The walls are lined with fading photographs and memories framed in soft gold, like old friends who never left but rarely speak. It’s the kind of place people forget to check in on, assuming I’m always home, always fine. But sometimes, it gets so quiet inside that I have to step out—just to knock on my own front door. I pretend I’m a guest, arriving with no expectations, just a need to be let in. I ring the bell, wait a moment, and greet myself … Continue reading A Visit to Myself

Começou num lugar que não se acha nos mapas, mas nos cantos da madrugada — um pedaço de Minas onde o tempo anda devagar e o amor se esconde no cheiro de café passado na hora. Lá, o amor não se diz. Se cozinha, como doce de leite no tacho, no silêncio morno do amanhecer. Minha pele, embora minha, carrega o tom de polpa de manga e sol de janeiro — uma tinta de urucum herdada da linhagem de minha mãe África. É a cor da lida, da fé, das mãos que me criaram. As palmas da minha mãe, gastas … Continue reading Crônica: A Origem do Meu Amor

Yo era un simple río, era las rocas inamovibles del fondo, también era los peces que nadaban contracorriente, era saciedad para algunos y un toque gélido para otros.Nací de manantiales puros y, asimismo, de montañas ásperas.El destino trazaba mi camino hacia ti, a converger en tus suaves olas, a fluir con tu imponente marea y a morir en tu inmensidad.Tú eras el mar…❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Yo y el mar…

(a poem for the days that ache) I am allowed to have bad days,Or weeks that stretch like endless haze.Even when I know my name,It doesn’t shield me from the flame. Life still strikes with heavy hands,And sometimes pain outgrows my plans.But bruises do not blur my face,Nor strip my soul of rightful place. I stand in truth, I know my core,Yet sorrow knocks upon my door.Joy and grief can intertwine—Both are threads in this life of mine. This verse I write to ease the sting,Of guilt that quiet sadness brings.As if the ones who wish me smallWill point and … Continue reading I Am Allowed

Don’t just inherit houses or heirlooms—ask for your grandparents’ stories.Not the ones meant to lull you to sleep,but the ones that keep your eyes wide open,the ones that make you feel history breathing. Devour their memories.Fall in love with the strangeness of their times.Listen to their taboos,how they were raised,what it meant to live through the Years of Lead.Don’t forget their war.Run to hear the voices of the partisans.Revive the past,protect the years behind us,preserve what was—so it won’t happen again. Because everything forgottenhas a way of coming back.So don’t forget yesterday’s pain.Let your skin learn to feelthe blows you … Continue reading Ask for an Inheritance of Stories

In the hush of early morning, when dew still clings to the petals and the air hums with quiet promise, I remember what it means to be sweet again. Not sweet in the way of sugar or charm, but in the way of wild strawberries hidden in tall grass—fragrant, fresh, untamed. The kind of sweetness that doesn’t ask to be noticed, but offers itself freely to those who pause long enough to find it. I want to be that again. To shed the bitterness that crept in unnoticed, like dust settling on a windowsill. To let the wind comb through … Continue reading Make Sweet Again

My skin, as ancient and rooted as the ocean’s pulse that guided a history of homesick hearts to strange lands, bears the marks of time and journey. It is as vast as the cracks formed between two broken continents, a map of memories and scars that tell tales of voyages and discoveries. No, my skin is not my own; I am merely its traveler. Each line and mark are witnesses to past lives, to loves lost and found, to dreams that faded and hopes that blossomed. I am a pilgrim, navigating this vast territory of flesh and history, feeling each … Continue reading Traveler of the Skin

There was a time when the misadventures of the day would weigh heavily on me. I’d question and second-guess myself constantly. But as I grow older, I’m beginning to realize that there are more meaningful questions to ask: Did I care enough?Was I kind and generous with the love within me?Did I truly listen and try to understand?And perhaps the most important of all:Did I make a difference today? If not, I hope tomorrow gives me another chance. Because in the end, it’s not about how others treated you—it’s about how you treated others. That’s what can bring peace, and … Continue reading Did I care enough?

So many names I’ve been called:witch, cow, slut, hottie,whore, saint, queen, mater dolorosa.Someone chose them for me.Convenient, necessaryfor all: family, society.I agreed, always agreed,jailer of my own will.Ah! So many faces I’ve worn:hare, snake, black widow, chameleon.Perfect camouflage!I mined the crevices,slipped through the underground,always alert, always lurking.It was the dreadful wayI found to exist,to keep my dream alive.When they tried to strip pleasurefrom between my legs, I disguised it.False appearance.With patience, I left the emberhidden down below, ready to ignite.I brought pleasure into my chest, into thought.Perfect triangle: sex, heart, and mind.When they locked me within wallsand made me queen … Continue reading The Faces of Eve– for women, always actresses –

I am the verse that takes your name and anything sacred—that lends itself to sunsets painted in our colors,to words that confess the ache of longing,to hopes whispered in the language of love that heals. When imperfect tenses spill from misplaced conversations,we dream in the future-more-than-perfect we deserve to walk by.To love is to change the home of the soul,to live in the other. Breathe slowly—respecting your pauses, your commas—dating each of our silences.I lengthen my lashes across your backand carry your tiredness on my shoulders. I want to wander across your chestand die in your shelter,only to be reborn … Continue reading Sacred