It is in the hollowed-out cavern of my silence that I finally begin to exist. I do not use ink; I write with the sharp, jagged letters of my own noise, that internal clatter that no one hears but which vibrates against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I have learned to forget my mistakes, not out of strength, but because I am beautifully, utterly poor of pride. To have pride is to have a ceiling, and I prefer the sky. I strip myself of the “important me” until I am thin enough to slip through the cracks of other lives.

I wander, blissfully discarded, becoming lost in the thickets of people’s stories. Their sorrows are my bread; their joys are a sun that burns me. In the end, I do not know where my skin stops and their breathing begins. I am a ghost written in a loud, private language, searching for a heart that beats in the same rhythm as my own disappearance.

©️ Beatriz Esmer