O corpo — ah, esse corpo. Esse desconcerto de carne que a gente carrega como quem carrega um segredo pesado e mal resolvido. Um vaso frágil, um trânsito de sangue, um fôlego que insiste em acontecer apesar dos pesares e das medidas que o mundo quer nos impor. O mundo, com sua mania tacanha de caber em caixas, de medir a beleza em centímetros, de rotular o que transborda. Mas a gente é mais. A gente é uma força que escapa por entre os dedos da lógica. E no entanto, quantas vezes eu não olhei para esse meu invólucro com … Continue reading O peso de ser tudo o que coube em mim

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

O amor, esse mistério que sangra. Para nós, mulheres que trazemos a lua presa à carne, o amor por si só é insuficiente — um desperdício de silêncio. Exigimos que cada dia enterre seus nós em nossas entranhas e puxe, até que doa, até que sangre a poesia crua dos baixios e das alegrias. Dançamos, sim, na corda bamba do nada, bem na beirada do abismo onde você, por um instante, tombou. Mas a lua cresce, murcha, sangra no céu, e você — inevitavelmente — há de renascer do próprio pó. Você, criatura rara, carregando esse corpo que não pertence … Continue reading Ouvindo a Respiração das Coisas

They told me to write my heart out —as if bleeding onto paper could reveal what lies buried beneath the noise.So I did. I sliced it open with verbs and vowels, let it hemorrhage on the page.Not for the sake of healing,but for the sake of knowing. And in that mess of ink and memories,two truths surfaced, raw and untamed:One —that no matter how I sculpt a sentence,your name lingers in the clay. And two —that this heart, though cavernous and echoing in its emptiness,is paradoxically bursting at the seams…with you You, in the margins.You, in the rhythm of every … Continue reading A Heart That Writes Itself

Love said your name and you did not listen… It is curious how we possess a strange, almost scandalous intimacy with suffering, yet treat grace as a dangerous intruder. Love came. It did not knock; it merely breathed. It said my name with the quiet urgency of a wave meeting the sand, and I—busy stitching together my small, urgent defenses—simply did not listen. Love sat right next to me, warm and unassuming, smelling faintly of something I used to be before I learned how to fear. And what did I do? I distracted myself with banalities. I counted the dust … Continue reading The Weight of the ObviousJuly 24, 2013

On aurait dit que quelqu’un avait fouillé dans les tiroirs les plus intimes de mon âme, exposant mes fragilités sous la lumière crue et impitoyable de la réalité. C’était une violence subtile, presque douce. Je me surprenais souvent là, immobile au bord de la fenêtre, à regarder les voitures miniatures en bas, tourbillonnant comme des feuilles mortes emportées par un vent aveugle, tandis que je relisais en silence des lettres qui avaient depuis longtemps perdu leur voix. Dans ces instants de vertige, je sursautais de désir : je voulais des ailes à la place des membres, je voulais briser la … Continue reading Sous le Regard de la Lune

Se eu te amasse um dia, seria assim: sem barulho. Como um segredo que o vento esqueceu de contar e deixou cair, por descuido, na fresta da janela. Um amor miúdo, quase leve, que anda na ponta dos pés pelos becos escuros onde a gente guarda o que não tem nome. Um rio que faz curvas só para prolongar a demora, que não pede licença para desaguar no mar e que se contenta apenas com o transbordar de ser. Me pergunto, no silêncio escuro das coisas: tuas mãos saberiam encontrar meus cabelos desmanchados pelo vento? Teu toque na curva do … Continue reading Se

I died yesterday. Not in the way that turns breath to dust—but in the quiet undoing of all I once thought I was. The curtain fell on a version of me that had memorized her lines too rigidly, stumbled through scenes that no longer moved her, and bowed to an audience she didn’t choose. That life, stitched together by habit and fear, finally exhaled its last sigh. And yet, I feel the hum of tomorrow already rising within me. A soft rustle in the wings. I will be reborn—not as someone new, but as someone true. The spotlight warms a … Continue reading Chronicle: A Dress Rehearsal of Souls

Dante spoke of it like an engine—the love that moves the sun and the other stars. But he wrote it from a desk, wrapped in velvet, his hands safe from the frost. He didn’t know the grease and the grit of it. He didn’t know how a heart can tighten inside the chest like a clenched fist, turning every pulse into a small, frantic execution. I look up at the ceiling at three in the morning, listening to the radiator hiss like a caged adder. The plaster is peeling in thin, papery flakes, just like the skin on my shoulders … Continue reading The Anatomy of a Trembling Pulse

It is today. Only today, I have decided that I will not leave this place. This lazy Sunday, with its soft, muffled noises and the occasional ‘Saranghae’ spilling from the television—a sound to which no one truly pays attention. It is merely a backdrop, a familiar, breathing comfort. I chew a piece of sugar-free gum that insists on lingering in my mouth, as if it, too, refuses to go away. No, I am not moving. The world outside may keep spinning its frantic wheel, but here, inside, there is a strange, heavy warmth. There is the dense, silent familiarity of … Continue reading Sunday