[The stage is bathed in soft amber light. A solitary figure sits on stone steps center stage, dressed in a white dress with a small neck scarf. Autumn leaves drift lazily around her. She holds a journal and a pen, speaking as if to someone not there — or perhaps deeply present.] I write to you from the steps of public spaces… from the quiet corners of my heart. It is a brilliant autumn’s day. My dress is white — foolishly bright against the golden trees — and my scarf, the one you always said made me look like a … Continue reading Monologue: Writing to you

I have tasted divinity on the edge of delirium, lips slick with the wine of chaos. I have spun wild and untethered, drunk with madness beneath the moon’s silver grin, shedding shame like a second skin as I ran through the world naked and laughing. I’ve stolen moments too sacred to hold, been robbed of innocence too fragile to last. I’ve shattered like glass and picked my jagged pieces from bloodied palms. In a blink, the universe pulsed into life and crumbled into silence. I’ve spoken with beings not of this earth—whispers from the stars and murmurs from the grave. … Continue reading Enchantress

A vida não é um acontecimento, é um estado de espírito que se atropela. Olho para o relógio e ele mente. O tempo não passa, ele se acumula, um sedimento de instantes que se recusam a morrer. Je l’aime tant, le temps qui reste… Digo isso como quem segura um pássaro ferido nas mãos, sentindo o pulsar quente e desesperado contra a palma. Não é medo do fim, é uma urgência absurda de ser tudo, simultaneamente, antes que a luz apague. Quero rir, mas rir de um modo que faça as costelas doerem, um riso de quem descobriu um segredo … Continue reading Crônica: O tempo que me Resta

I have discovered, with the sudden, sharp clarity of a blade hitting cold marble, that tears are a form of ablution. They wash the soul, yes—they scrub away the grime of existence—but they leave the spirit shivering and brittle. And I cannot afford to be brittle. I must be made of iron and instinct, for I am tasked with walking through the concrete jungle, a place where the lions do not roar; they simply wait, patient and hungry, for the moment you decide to be soft. I hunted for love, a scavenger searching for a mirror that would hold my … Continue reading From Pain to Writing, A Chronicle

Eu te amo pela poesia das coisas ditas como se eu nunca antes tivesse dito palavra: um peso, um significado, uma realeza, um gole mesmo dos lábios contentes que me fazem céus. Vivi com silêncios como um luto inconsciente por não saber de ti. Tudo o que me dizias era página de jornal velho, formalidade, enchimento, um catálogo de conveniências necessárias para sobreviver aos dias… Ah, essa urgência de dizer. Mas o que é o dito, senão um modo de silenciar o que é mais profundo? Antes de ti, eu habitava o vácuo. Não era bem uma espera, era um … Continue reading A Palavra que Inaugura

Peel me down to the bone. Strip away the layers—that fragile, polite architecture of social existence—and you will finally see. You will see that I am an impertinence to expectation. People build small cages of definition around me, hoping I will sit quietly within them, but they do not realize that I am made of a substance that refuses to be measured. I am more fire than water; I am the combustion that precedes the spark. I am more wind than air—not the gentle, stagnant breeze of small talk, but the gale that uproots the heavy, unspoken truths. I am … Continue reading The Unseen Pulse

Ce que je souhaite, c’est que mon corps te blesse. C’est que mes hanches saillent, que mes côtes s’extirpent, que mes clavicules percent la peau à t’en couper la chair. Chaque vêtement que je retire n’est en rien une révélation, si ce n’est de mon armure. Mon corps, c’est ma protection, ma parure. Et je veux que tu l’affronte; je veux que tu y perdes la vue et le souffle…❤️ Continue reading Mon Corps

What does one do…When the cold becomes too much to bear?When the silence begins to deafen the screams of hope?When the walls become so thick that all light is blocked?How does one chip through the ice and touch the heart that hides inside of it?How does one do penance in peace when they don’t know if they are in purgatory or hell?The opposite of love, is apathy.If it were hate, there would be hope.Nothingness kills a spirit, and leaves us with a choice:We die a little more every day for (a) love, or fight like hell to live without it… … Continue reading Little by Little

No silêncio da noite, o mar ecoava como um lamento antigo. As ondas se erguiam, não como dança, mas como súplica. Lá, entre o céu e a água, almas invisíveis gritavam — presas a correntes que não eram de ferro, mas de esquecimento. Era ali que o poeta, com o coração em chamas, lançava seu brado: “Senhor Deus dos desgraçados!” A cada suspiro do vento, vinham histórias de corpos naufragados, de olhos que viram demais e bocas caladas pelo medo. Diante de tanto sofrimento, de tanto horror que manchava os céus, o espírito do poeta estremecia: “Dizei-me vós, Senhor Deus! … Continue reading O clamor que rasga os céus

You believe, with a vanity that is almost endearing, that you are the sole inhabitant of this specific smallness. You imagine that the trembling of your interior is a solitary phenomenon, a secret vibration that belongs only to you. You are convinced that you alone stand before the abyss of tomorrow, squinting, trying to decipher the unreadable script of what is to come. You fear the world—that great, devouring mouth—as if its hunger were directed specifically at your fragile, singular marrow. But look: the horror is not in the being, but in the forgetting. We are all, in our essence, … Continue reading The Collision of Silences