When I read
poems from the past,
I barely understand them.

I try, yes—
but they are minds
from another time.

It takes time
to connect with them.

Then I imagine myself:
will they, in the future,
read the poems I write to you
and understand
anything at all?

you will see his eyes
and think it is love

but the danger is
we stay
when we should leave

a stone
turns into a mountain

do not give
your love
to empty hands

i wait each day
just to see you
walking through the school

a fleeting second
is enough—
i don’t even know
if you notice me

still,
i carry this quiet crush

i won’t make the first move
fear whispers
that the magic might vanish

so i just keep staring
every
single
day

When did it happen?
When did we become this snowball—
cold and homeless,
rolling aimlessly
down an icy mountain?

We were doing so well, weren’t we?
Now we’re sliding downhill,
frozen,
distant,
barely speaking.

That’s why they say—
when you reach
the top of the mountain,
the only thing left
is to go down.

I am
deliberately
destroying our family.

They say a wise woman
builds her home—
I am removing every brick
we so carefully
stacked.

But do not blame
my wisdom,
or the lack of it.

If only I could show you
all the possible endings
of our story—
the ones I’ve built and rebuilt
in my mind and heart—
and still
it would not be enough
for you to forgive me,
for me to forgive myself,
for the shame
of becoming
a beggar
pleading for life.

Jesus, son of David—
have mercy on me.

I had already understood
that it was about choosing
what made me feel good
but
what if what made me feel good
wasn’t what God wanted for me?
For so long
I chained myself to this doubt
this anxiety
I came to the conclusion
that I was no saint
that the ticket to hell
was free
while the ticket to heaven
cost me far too much
So maybe
I should try my luck
live whatever life could give me at its best
Because only in the end
would I know
if God would have mercy on me

I told you no.
I should have walked away.
But I’ve been rejected so many times…
I think I’ve embraced the cause.

I should be a strong woman—
but what does that even mean?
Thinking only of myself?

Forgive me, my love—
next time,
I’ll open everything
I possibly can
for you.

With each passing day,
I realize I am not alone
in the universe
that there is something greater than me,
greater than everything,
and that this everything
dwells within me.

I think my favorite time of day
is dusk
It feels as if something important is happening
Yes, the death of a day seems
reasonable
In that moment
I turn off all the lights in the house
sit on the couch
put on some good music
pour myself a glass of wine
and consecrate that moment
A toast to me
I am alive

I’m writing this
knowing you’ll never read it.
I don’t even know if you you regconize me.

But sometimes
I play our song —
that beat only we would recognize,
the one you sent me in the middle of the night
when we were teenagers,
buried among countless other songs,
but this one stayed,
etched in my heart.

In our dreams,
I hold our baby in my arms
and hum it as a lullaby.
It’s perfect for that.

As I sway softly to the music,
my heart warms and aches,
as if, in some other universe,
this dream wasn’t a dream at all
but a truth.

I love you — you know that.
Or maybe the love I have to give
was never enough for you.
Or maybe it was.
I’m not sure anymore.

We are confused, inconsistent,
like the shift between seasons.
You never know whether to bring a coat or an umbrella,
so we linger in the in-between.

Either way,
the song is saved in my favorite playlist.
I know it’s in yours too.
It’s proof that what we felt for each other
was real.

When I was a child
I played with the egg carton
scattered paperclips around the house
bottle caps
nail polish
anything
that could be a passenger
on my spaceship

Small pleasures
being present
staying away from social media
exercise
I’d always read this list of items
to improve well-being
on some websites
and never paid much attention
Then I chose to adopt them
like my cat
that I found on the street
They all came to stay

For so long,
I thought something was wrong
with being empty inside.
But I’ve made peace with my emptiness—
a flute only makes music
when its soul is open wide.

Hi!
I’m so glad you reached out—
it’s been far too long
since we last spoke.

Yes, let’s watch the movie.
I love the idea!

It’s okay not to be okay right now—
we’ll get through this together.

Today,
we can take care of our feet
if we want to be ballerinas.
No one will stop us.

Write to me again soon.
I miss you.

P.S. I love you.

I was never addicted.
I was always starved for affection—
That pleasure I tried to find
Here, in my core,
Was only an attempt to rescue
The girl in her old bed
In that house filled with
Violence,
Neglect.

Where no one ever told her a story
Before she fell asleep,
Where no one ever said
“Good night,
Sleep with God.”

Today,
She’s feeling her way along the walls
Of her cold house,
Trying to find
The path back home.

—It was always about
Feeling loved.

The interesting thing about
gardens
is that they usually
have a beginning and an end
I am a garden
I need to set my white fences
put up signs
“Do not step on the grass”
label each flower with its name
water them every day
pull out the weeds
use poison so the insects
won’t hurt them
also breathe in their scent
feel the delicacy of the petals
and, no less important,
admire all the work done

I found out you moved on,
you’re with another woman.

I felt nothing.

I thought I would cry,
tear my hair out over you—
but I think I love myself now.

My weekly therapy sessions worked.

This was supposed to be my day—
a day to be happy.

I ended up alone.
Again.
Disgracefully.
Inevitably.

Every choice I’ve made
has brought me here.

I try to fool myself,
saying it’s not my fault—
blame my parents,
they raised me this way.

But I’m no longer a child.
Or at least,
I should have grown,
matured,
evolved.

At the end of my day,
the pleasure should have been mine.
But instead, I undressed,
put you in my mouth,
and gave you pleasure.

Happy birthday to me.

Understand this once and for all!
Within me, I am as many as I choose to be
Don’t get me wrong
I’m not sick
I’ve never been as sane as I am today
But the strength of a single woman is not enough for me
I need to be many
I need to be Athena
But I also need to be Persephone
At times I’ll be Hera
But most of the time, Aphrodite
And, strangely enough, I’ll be Hestia, Demeter, and Artemis
All at once, or in their rightful time
Because this is me—unique
Goddess of myself

Riding the subway
I realize there are so many people
so many people, really
I wonder if all of them
are okay

a person with an unimaginable power to fall, rise, and keep going.
a person who cries, who suffers, who feels the seismic shakes of life and is still here
in the land of the living.
a person who can be whoever they want to be.
a person who can be light and love.

Sometimes
Poetry comes
Like a slap
Across my face.

It keeps bothering me,
Begging to be written.

And I go,
“Ok… here we go.”
I’m channeling now.

My birthday—
the day I was born—
also feels
closer to my death.

Sad, yes,
I must admit.

No one will remember me.
I try so hard
to make others feel important
on their birthdays,
to remember them.

But when my beloved day arrives,
they forget the one
who remembered them.

Ungrateful!
Don’t they know
I placed them
on a pedestal?

And yes—
those on top
don’t look down.

Maybe that’s why
they don’t remember my birthday—
because I valued them
more than I valued myself.

Living love is hard—
when you least expect it,
it sweeps your legs from behind,
leaves you sprawled on the ground,
bleeding out until you die.

There’s no one to save you.

I could say much more,
but I think only those who’ve lived it
know.

I was scrolling through Pinterest
when I saw a drawing
of a girl with flowers sprouting from her head
watering herself
I felt the scars on my thigh—
the ones only I can see—begin to itch
So I decided
I would tattoo that drawing over
my war marks
so I’d never do something like that
to myself
again

“May luck be in your favor.”
Really?
Really?

How many times has it been?
And if it was—
was it luck?
Or was it God?

It depends on who answers.
It depends on who asks.

Lately,
I don’t care.

They say we’ll never win,
that those above us—
mere mortals—
decide who wins
and who truly conquers.

Yes, because winning
is not the same as conquering.

You don’t change a team
that’s winning,
but they’re already champions.

So all that’s left
is to believe
that luck is on our side—
and God Emanuel
with us all.

My natural hair is
curly
but when I look in the mirror
I feel ugly
I grew up hearing my hair was
beautiful
so I shouldn’t do anything to it—and I
believed
that it was sacred
even if it made me unhappy today
Yes, my hair is sacred
but because I decide
when it will be straight
or when it will be curly

Forgive me—
my life isn’t interesting enough
to post on Instagram,
but it’s no less colorful.

I live intensely, yes,
and those who’ve been with me
know it well.

I like a good secret.
If you want to know what happened,
just ask—
and with my words alone,
I’ll make you jealous
you weren’t there with me.

Then I’ll invite you
to live
a few lives
with a little more meaning.