My skin, as ancient and rooted as the ocean’s pulse that guided a history of homesick hearts to strange lands, bears the marks of time and journey. It is as vast as the cracks formed between two broken continents, a map of memories and scars that tell tales of voyages and discoveries. No, my skin is not my own; I am merely its traveler. Each line and mark are witnesses to past lives, to loves lost and found, to dreams that faded and hopes that blossomed. I am a pilgrim, navigating this vast territory of flesh and history, feeling each … Continue reading Traveler of the Skin

There was a time when the misadventures of the day would weigh heavily on me. I’d question and second-guess myself constantly. But as I grow older, I’m beginning to realize that there are more meaningful questions to ask: Did I care enough?Was I kind and generous with the love within me?Did I truly listen and try to understand?And perhaps the most important of all:Did I make a difference today? If not, I hope tomorrow gives me another chance. Because in the end, it’s not about how others treated you—it’s about how you treated others. That’s what can bring peace, and … Continue reading Did I care enough?

So many names I’ve been called:witch, cow, slut, hottie,whore, saint, queen, mater dolorosa.Someone chose them for me.Convenient, necessaryfor all: family, society.I agreed, always agreed,jailer of my own will.Ah! So many faces I’ve worn:hare, snake, black widow, chameleon.Perfect camouflage!I mined the crevices,slipped through the underground,always alert, always lurking.It was the dreadful wayI found to exist,to keep my dream alive.When they tried to strip pleasurefrom between my legs, I disguised it.False appearance.With patience, I left the emberhidden down below, ready to ignite.I brought pleasure into my chest, into thought.Perfect triangle: sex, heart, and mind.When they locked me within wallsand made me queen … Continue reading The Faces of Eve– for women, always actresses –

I am the verse that takes your name and anything sacred—that lends itself to sunsets painted in our colors,to words that confess the ache of longing,to hopes whispered in the language of love that heals. When imperfect tenses spill from misplaced conversations,we dream in the future-more-than-perfect we deserve to walk by.To love is to change the home of the soul,to live in the other. Breathe slowly—respecting your pauses, your commas—dating each of our silences.I lengthen my lashes across your backand carry your tiredness on my shoulders. I want to wander across your chestand die in your shelter,only to be reborn … Continue reading Sacred

Pour forth your love generously, like the sun that never withholds its golden rays—embracing every corner of the earth with warmth and grace. Let your heart become an endless spring, where each drop of affection turns into a river that flows freely, nourishing all it touches. The future—an unfolding mystery—rests upon our ability to love with our whole being. For within love lies the quiet magic to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary, to breathe life into dreams and make them tangible. Love without hesitation, without fear, without condition. Love with the force of a storm and the gentleness of … Continue reading Pour Forth Your Love Generously

What will you do when your beauty begins to fade? The petals of youth, once vibrant and full of life, slowly lose their luster, but in this gentle decay lies a hidden truth. Beauty, like the ephemeral bloom of a flower, is not meant to be hoarded or clung to. It is a gift, a fleeting moment of grace that must be shared to truly endure. For nothing lasts forever until you learn how to give it away. In the act of giving, beauty transforms, transcending the physical and becoming a timeless essence that lingers in the hearts of those … Continue reading Reflections on Beauty and Giving

A Chronicle by Beatriz Esmer They say poverty is a thief—it steals comfort, opportunity, even dignity. But in one forgotten corner of the city, where cracked pavement meets rusted tin roofs, I met a child who defied that theft with nothing but laughter. She was no older than seven, barefoot and radiant, her joy unfiltered by the weight of want. Her world was stitched together from scraps: a broken sandal became a doll’s cradle, a bent spoon her magic wand. The alley was her kingdom, and the sun her spotlight. She danced between puddles as if they were oceans, chased … Continue reading In the Shadows of Scarcity

August 11, 2014 That night, I didn’t write to be understood. I wrote to disappear. I lay dormant, tucked behind phrases and verbs, hoping no one would notice the tremble in my voice or the ache in my silence. My words were not confessions—they were camouflage. Carefully chosen, deliberately placed. I knew how to sound poetic without sounding personal. That was my gift. That was my shield. I lie dormant, hiddenbehind phrases and verbsunnoticed, undetected… I’ve always known how to vanish in plain sight. People read my poems and see beauty, melancholy, maybe even mystery. But they don’t see me. … Continue reading Chronicle of the Unseen Me

If I write what I feel, it’s to reduce this chaos, this anxiety within me… Each sentence, a breath—steadying the pulse of a restless heart.I write not to impress, but to survive.To turn the noise into music, the ache into art.Because somewhere between ink and emotion,I find fragments of peace.And maybe, just maybe,someone else will read these linesand feel a little less alone. 🙏🏾❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Writing

Love arrived like a famished traveler, ravenous and insatiable. It devoured the very essence of my existence, leaving behind an empty plate where once my identity lay.First, it feasted on my name—the syllables that defined me. Love chewed through each letter, savoring the taste of vowels and consonants. My birth certificate crumbled under its hunger, and my genealogy dissolved into forgotten whispers.Business cards, meticulously printed with titles and affiliations, vanished into its voracious maw. Love cared not for credentials; it preferred the raw flavor of authenticity.The papers where I wrote my name—scribbled notes, letters, and diary entries—all became its midnight … Continue reading Love’s Feast