How do I translate this pain into words?She cried, her voice trembling like a thread pulled too tight. The question wasn’t rhetorical—it was a plea, a desperate attempt to make sense of the ache that had settled deep within her chest, like a stone that refused to move. He sat beside her, quiet for a long time. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask for answers, only presence. Then, gently, he said,You can’t.Some feelings just don’t have a language. And in that moment, she understood. There are wounds that live beneath the surface, untouched by syllables. Grief that curls around … Continue reading The Silence Between Words

Passava os dias ali, quieta, no meio das coisas miúdas e me encantei… Era como se o tempo tivesse desaprendido a correr. As horas se esticavam feito fios de algodão, e eu me deixava ficar. Entre o chiado da chaleira, o ranger da cadeira de balanço, o cheiro de café recém-passado e o sol que entrava tímido pela fresta da janela, havia uma paz que não se anunciava — apenas existia. As coisas miúdas… Ah, essas tinham um jeito de me olhar de volta. A colher de chá, sempre no mesmo lugar. O vasinho de manjericão, que crescia devagar, mas … Continue reading No meio das coisas miúdas

There are truths that live in silence. Not because they are weak, but because they are sacred—too vast for language, too tender for touch. Mine was such a truth. A heart not given to you, nor even to myself, but suspended in the ether like a forgotten prayer. It belonged to something greater, something transcendental. And like all things beyond the veil—those you cannot see, cannot touch, cannot taste—it remained cloaked in its own essence, refusing to be simplified. Yet its presence was undeniable. It stirred the dust in our quiet corners. It bent the light between our glances. It … Continue reading Neglected: A Chronicle of the Unseen Heart — 2015

Pronounce your name with confidence. Tell them where you come from with pride. Be proud of your roots. Don’t you dare make excuses for who you are. I stand tall, my heart swelling with pride as I pronounce my name with unwavering confidence. “Beatriz,” I say, letting each syllable resonate with the strength of my heritage. I come from Brazil, a land of breathtaking beauty and vibrant culture, though still affected by the scars of colonization and enslavement, I stand tall, for my roots are deep and strong. I am a proud descendant of the Zulu people, warriors and visionaries … Continue reading Embracing Heritage

My mind is a quiet house at the edge of town—lonely, perhaps, but not unloved. The walls are lined with fading photographs and memories framed in soft gold, like old friends who never left but rarely speak. It’s the kind of place people forget to check in on, assuming I’m always home, always fine. But sometimes, it gets so quiet inside that I have to step out—just to knock on my own front door. I pretend I’m a guest, arriving with no expectations, just a need to be let in. I ring the bell, wait a moment, and greet myself … Continue reading A Visit to Myself

Começou num lugar que não se acha nos mapas, mas nos cantos da madrugada — um pedaço de Minas onde o tempo anda devagar e o amor se esconde no cheiro de café passado na hora. Lá, o amor não se diz. Se cozinha, como doce de leite no tacho, no silêncio morno do amanhecer. Minha pele, embora minha, carrega o tom de polpa de manga e sol de janeiro — uma tinta de urucum herdada da linhagem de minha mãe África. É a cor da lida, da fé, das mãos que me criaram. As palmas da minha mãe, gastas … Continue reading Crônica: A Origem do Meu Amor

Yo era un simple río, era las rocas inamovibles del fondo, también era los peces que nadaban contracorriente, era saciedad para algunos y un toque gélido para otros.Nací de manantiales puros y, asimismo, de montañas ásperas.El destino trazaba mi camino hacia ti, a converger en tus suaves olas, a fluir con tu imponente marea y a morir en tu inmensidad.Tú eras el mar…❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Yo y el mar…

(a poem for the days that ache) I am allowed to have bad days,Or weeks that stretch like endless haze.Even when I know my name,It doesn’t shield me from the flame. Life still strikes with heavy hands,And sometimes pain outgrows my plans.But bruises do not blur my face,Nor strip my soul of rightful place. I stand in truth, I know my core,Yet sorrow knocks upon my door.Joy and grief can intertwine—Both are threads in this life of mine. This verse I write to ease the sting,Of guilt that quiet sadness brings.As if the ones who wish me smallWill point and … Continue reading I Am Allowed

Don’t just inherit houses or heirlooms—ask for your grandparents’ stories.Not the ones meant to lull you to sleep,but the ones that keep your eyes wide open,the ones that make you feel history breathing. Devour their memories.Fall in love with the strangeness of their times.Listen to their taboos,how they were raised,what it meant to live through the Years of Lead.Don’t forget their war.Run to hear the voices of the partisans.Revive the past,protect the years behind us,preserve what was—so it won’t happen again. Because everything forgottenhas a way of coming back.So don’t forget yesterday’s pain.Let your skin learn to feelthe blows you … Continue reading Ask for an Inheritance of Stories

In the hush of early morning, when dew still clings to the petals and the air hums with quiet promise, I remember what it means to be sweet again. Not sweet in the way of sugar or charm, but in the way of wild strawberries hidden in tall grass—fragrant, fresh, untamed. The kind of sweetness that doesn’t ask to be noticed, but offers itself freely to those who pause long enough to find it. I want to be that again. To shed the bitterness that crept in unnoticed, like dust settling on a windowsill. To let the wind comb through … Continue reading Make Sweet Again