I woke up and discovered that my hands were not mine. They were merely a temporary shape that the universe had assumed to hold a glass of water. It is a violent kind of grace, isn’t it? To realize that nobody really owns anything. We are all just an intersection of shadows and borrowed light. We inhabit these bodies, these heavy, pulsing shells, with a ferocity that suggests permanence. But it is a lie we tell our mirrors. At the end, we must give back the skin, the bones, the very blood that hums in our ears. We own our … Continue reading The Great Borrowing

I am not what they call me. Labels are just the crust of a bread I do not wish to eat. I am a state of being, a pulse, a vibration in the dark. I am the “it” that breathes before the word is born. To be a poetess is not to tell stories, it is to suffer the impact of the world against the skin. I am the silence that waits. Not the empty silence, but the thick, humid silence that precedes the scream. I do not want to be a masterpiece; I want to be the raw paint, … Continue reading Poetess

Às vezes, o que nos falta não é o ar, mas a coragem de ser o que se é sem o medo de esbarrar no vizinho. Se pudéssemos trocar esse tremor miúdo por uma curiosidade de bicho, aquela que olha sem julgar, que apenas vê, talvez o mundo deixasse de ser uma casca rígida. Sinto que a inveja é um cansaço de si mesmo. E se, em vez de nos encolhermos, nos dilatássemos em alegria? Seria menos sobre “eu” e mais sobre esse “nós” que é um mistério difícil de decifrar. O julgamento, você sabe, é uma forma de nos … Continue reading O Instante do Outro

C’è chi ti legge come un libro aperto,chi ti chiude come un libro letto,chi ti scrive come un libro bianco,chi ha perso il segnalibro,chi voleva leggertima le emozioni non erano in saldo,chi ti ha sfogliato e riposto sullo scaffale,chi ti ha portato a casa e messo in libreria.Forse un giorno qualcuno ti legge sul serio,dalla copertina all’ultima pagina,e ti porta con sécome il dono più prezioso…❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Ti Legge

Descobri que as manhãs, às vezes, acordam com as pernas pesadas. São os dias doentes. Dias que não têm tamanho de pássaro, mas peso de pedra esquecida no fundo do quintal. Nesses momentos, a grama cresce sem música e o silêncio fica descascado. Para tratar essas febres do mundo, não busco frascos de farmácia com nomes de latim. Procuro o que é desimportante. Aprendi que o afeto ainda é um remédio. Ele não se toma com água; se toma com o olhar. É coisa de se passar na alma, como quem passa manteiga no pão quente. É um vício de … Continue reading O Inventário das Curas Miúdas

Why should I hide? There is a profound, quiet gravity in being completely naked with another person, a moment where the world falls away and only the raw, warming pulse of skin remains. It is in this desexualized state that conversation finally sheds its armor. When clothes are merely a heap on the floor, words become purer, stripped of the pretenses we wear like uniforms. To me, skin is the most exquisite thing in existence. The shortest distance to another person’s heart isn’t a grand gesture; it is the slow, deliberate intimacy of being loved inch by inch, centimeter by … Continue reading Why? 

I look at the wall until the wall looks back, and I wonder: who is the “I” that speaks? I ask, almost in a whisper to the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun, that the light of humility might finally arrive. Not as a grand sun, but as a small, persistent candle placed deep within the cavern of my chest. I am afraid, you see. I am afraid of the mirrors I build for myself. May this light shine until it stings, so that arrogance, that thick, heavy silk, does not wrap itself around my eyes. Arrogance is a … Continue reading The Luminous Silence

As I sit here, contemplating the words on the page in front of me, I am struck by the realization of my own fragility. Like an un-agreeable mark of ink on a page, I resist my own depth and darkness. I am reminded that I am not invincible, that I am susceptible to the trials and tribulations of life. Just as the ink on the page can smudge and fade, so too can I be affected by the challenges that come my way. But in this fragility, I find a sense of humility and understanding. I am not perfect, and … Continue reading Fragility

And now, I love the volumes of my life. Not the stories, stories are for those who fear the void, but the physical mass of existing, the heavy, sweet density of being here. I am no longer afraid of the space I occupy. I listen. There is the adagio of my heart’s beating, a slow, rhythmic pulse that does not ask for permission to continue. It is a thick silence punctuated by blood. And then, the outside: the metronome of the rainfall, ticking away the seconds of a time that doesn’t exist, yet washes everything clean of its yesterday. How … Continue reading The Weight of Being