It feels, at times, like a quiet evil drifts through the world. Not the kind with fangs or capes, no, that would be too grand, too easily named. It is something far more insidious, a silent vapor that settles in the corners of our modern rooms. It feeds on capital and distraction, grows fat on vanity, and rushes ever forward on the conveyor belt of empty profit. It is a hunger that devours nothingness and calls it progress. We look into the mirror of the world, and what reflects back is a polished absence. But the soul, that stubborn, heavy … Continue reading The Soul Cannot Eat Money

Há dias em que a alma cansa do combate ininterrupto. O corpo pede o avesso da gravidade. Nesses dias, não escolho lutar para sempre; escolho apenas o gesto miúdo e quase clandestino de virar o travesseiro para o seu lado frio. Há uma volúpia secreta em render-se ao anonimato — esse vazio cinzento e indolor onde a existência deixa de doer porque deixa de ser. É o quase-nada. Mas existir é uma matéria persistente. De repente, como um eco sussurrado no escuro do quarto, as memórias começam a agitar-se. Não são pensamentos, são presenças. Compromissos gravados não na agenda, mas … Continue reading O Lado Frio do Travesseiro

They say I’m beautiful when I’m quiet.When my knees are obedient, and my words fall silent.They love the curve of my hip but not the edge of my thought.They kiss my lips, only to keep them shut. Yes, I know what they want.Open legs, closed mind.A mouth that moans but never questions.A body that bends, not a will that resists.They dress it up as love—but it’s conquest in costume. Do you know what it means to be desired but never heard?To be looked at like a painting: admired, owned, never asked what it means?They liked my smile—called it their favorite … Continue reading Mouthful of Flame

My flesh is papyrus.Not paper—no, that would burn too fast. I am papyrus: thick with story, frayed at the edges, yet holding every stroke of ink life dared to write on me. These lines—every crease, every fracture—they are not damage. They are poetry. You see this scar here? It’s not shame. It’s a stanza.It says: I have loved. Enough to be broken open.It says: I have lived. Through storms that did not ask permission.It says: I have been.And now… I am trying to become. You look for beauty in symmetry. In clean slates and flawless skin. But I have learned—There … Continue reading Monologue: “Papyrus”

O amor não tem modos. Ele chega com a fome impessoal de uma fera que não escolhe o que mastiga; ele apenas quer o preenchimento de seu próprio vazio. Olho para mim mesma e já não me reconheço. É que o amor devorou o meu nome. Olho para a calçada, para os papéis guardados na gaveta, e não há mais registro: ele engoliu minha identidade, meu reflexo, o meu próprio rosto. Um estômago divino e cruel que tragou minha certidão de nascimento, minha linhagem, meu endereço no mundo. Onde eu morava? Agora moro no perigo de existir sem garantias. O … Continue reading O Amor Não Tem Modos

You ask me why we need prophets Why we bend our ears toward mountaintops, toward burning bushes and thunderous clouds. Why we hush our instincts just to hear another speak with divine authority, etched in gold leaf or sanctified by centuries. Maybe it’s not the prophet we need—maybe it’s the permission. Permission to trust our doubts. To feel anger and still be good. To choose tenderness and still be strong. We carry this strange hunger to be told that the ache inside us isn’t a flaw but a compass. That the questions we carry in the deep hours are not … Continue reading Monologue

Walking in my shoes? If you were to do that, I would feel, at once, a almost gentle pity for you. For you would not find footwear, but a maze. One of those blind geometries, without doors, where the walls narrow so much that even the freest soul would experience the suffocation of existing. A claustrophobia of the being. Look down. See the deception: those so-called shoes do not even exist. What is there is the raw, bare foot, touching the very ground. And the ground is made of shattered glass. Each step is not an advance, it is a … Continue reading Barefoot

A world that tolerates genocide is not safe for anyone — because when the destruction of a people is permitted, silence becomes complicit, and human dignity becomes negotiable. Justice cannot be selective; empathy must never be conditional. Where violence is normalized, peace is only a fragile illusion. 😔 ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Intolerable

Along life’s paths, we become halves. Halves to fit into smaller spaces. Less suffering, it’s true, but also less life and less love. This half is shaped by the distance we create between ourselves and others, between ourselves and existence itself. Those who fragment, numb themselves to say goodbye to what consumes them. We stop feeling the urgency to exist, and little devours us beyond our own half. We ignore the heights of love, no longer knowing the pain of falling, nor our own freedoms. In our halves, we lose the heights of love. We no longer feel the wind … Continue reading Reflections on Life — Halves

There were three glass jars on the table. Inside the tallest one, dry branches stretched out like arthritic fingers, clawing at the heavy afternoon air. A few small stones rested at the base, heavy with the terrifying stillness of things that simply exist. I looked at him, and he was no longer a man; he was merely a fact. A hard, dense fact that I had allowed to block my view of the horizon. Leave him, let him go. The words came from outside, or perhaps from the deepest, most silent core of my stomach, where hunger turns into truth. … Continue reading The Weight of Objects