I almost took you to a park—a quiet one, where the benches had names carved into them by other almost-lovers. We almost sat under a blue sky, letting childhood memories unravel between us like kite strings, fragile and free. Strawberries stained our fingers, and puns tumbled between smiles that barely held back something deeper. We almost lay side by side, eyes turned skyward, laughing at clouds and wondering whether poetry would love us if we tried to write it. You almost kissed me once—at the edge of daylight, when silence pressed in like a held breath. I remember my hands … Continue reading Almost

Deep Blue They ruined my name before they ever knew me. Twisted it with foreign tongues and hollow eyes, turning something sacred into a punchline. And somehow, that was enough. Enough to bleed cruelty without context, to carve judgment into the skin of someone whose only offense was being named, being alive. I’ll never understand that kind of meanness, that hunger to diminish. Every time I fall, someone is there to grind me further down. As if pain is a game and I’m the chosen target. Words—they bruise deeper than fists ever could. I’ve imagined the sting of concrete more … Continue reading Monologue

To my father Amidst the bustling crowd, she wandered—a seeker in the cathedral of youth. There, she glimpsed her father, his eyes etched with salt, memories eternally etched into the grooves of his face. His bald head, once a fortress, now bore the patina of time, stainless steel skin beginning to rust. The passage of years had softened him, made him vulnerable.Salt also stung her own eyes, love as gentle as a sea-breeze. Conversations unfolded like prayers, each word a sacred offering. Children whispered supplications to other children, their innocence a hymn. Mothers, too, prayed to fathers, seeking solace in … Continue reading Cathedrals of Youth

Today, the world wakes up tired. Fingers scroll through screens in search of ready-made certainties, streets fill with voices that shout more than they speak. Yet within all that noise, there is a quiet call — the same that once made a man turn his back on the temple, open a blank book, and with trembling hands, write: “Everything is interconnected.” Perhaps Spinoza knew nothing of digital anxiety, of the cult of speed, or the chronic fatigue of being present in everything and in nothing at once. But he would have recognized the emptiness behind appearances — the burning hunger … Continue reading Spinoza

Não houve trombetas. Nenhum céu rasgado por cavalos alados, nem multidões ajoelhadas em êxtase. Ninguém escreveu manchetes: “Ele voltou.” E, no entanto, voltou. Chegou com a barba por fazer, a roupa gasta, o sotaque estranho. Trazia nos olhos uma mansidão incômoda e nos ombros o peso de séculos de espera. Pediu pão. Pediu abrigo. Pediu apenas o que qualquer um pediria após uma longa jornada atravessando desertos — não os da Bíblia, mas os do mundo moderno, de fronteiras e papéis exigidos em nome da ordem. Mas aqueles que mais falavam Dele foram os primeiros a desviar o olhar. Estavam … Continue reading Crônica: O dia em que Jesus voltou

My flesh is papyrus.Not paper—no, that would burn too fast. I am papyrus: thick with story, frayed at the edges, yet holding every stroke of ink life dared to write on me. These lines—every crease, every fracture—they are not damage. They are poetry. You see this scar here? It’s not shame. It’s a stanza.It says: I have loved. Enough to be broken open.It says: I have lived. Through storms that did not ask permission.It says: I have been.And now… I am trying to become. You look for beauty in symmetry. In clean slates and flawless skin. But I have learned—There … Continue reading Monologue: “Papyrus”

Eu pensei.Pensei que em 2025 a gente já tivesse aprendido alguma coisa.Não muito — só o básico. O óbvio.Como respeitar. Como cuidar. Como calar quando o que vem da boca é veneno. Mas olha… olha o que fizeram.Deixaram o mal sair do subsolo, se infiltrar nas telas, nas conversas de domingo, nos olhos das crianças.E a gente achando que o futuro seria limpo, transparente, leve.Tudo mentira. Ou talvez… ingenuidade minha. Dizem que o povo está decepcionado, que é por isso que votam no ódio, que reproduzem violência como quem respira —mas desde quando decepção virou desculpa pra crueldade? Eu pensei … Continue reading Monólogo

There are days when I don’t choose to fight forever. Instead, I turn the pillow to its cool side, surrendering to anonymity—the gray, painless void. But then, like a whispered echo, memories stir. Commitments etched into my soul, faces of those I love, their laughter and tears—they weave themselves into my consciousness. And in that delicate balance, I find resolve. “Today,” I tell myself, “they are still here.” The weight of their presence becomes my armor. Each sunrise, each heartbeat, a testament to resilience. I am a warrior, not with swords or shields, but with the quiet strength of persistence. … Continue reading There are days …

When they tell you that this tragedy, this ache that has taken root in your bones, is not worth their time, do not falter. Instead, grasp your pen—the instrument of defiance—and write. Write with the fire of a thousand suns, scorching the parchment with every syllable. Show them the way they are wrong. Paint your pain in vivid hues, each stroke a testament to the universality of suffering. For every woman who has ever felt the weight of solitude, let your words be a lifeline. Let them scream across the pages, echoing through generations. And when they force-feed you doubt, … Continue reading Ink and Rebellion

(This is an excerpt from one of my plays) You ask me why we need prophets Why we bend our ears toward mountaintops, toward burning bushes and thunderous clouds. Why we hush our instincts just to hear another speak with divine authority, etched in gold leaf or sanctified by centuries. Maybe it’s not the prophet we need—maybe it’s the permission. Permission to trust our doubts. To feel anger and still be good. To choose tenderness and still be strong. We carry this strange hunger to be told that the ache inside us isn’t a flaw but a compass. That the … Continue reading Monologue