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

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

I write poetry
born from a feeling, an emotion—
I’m not even sure what.

Almost like a kind of rapture,
the words come,
and I pour them onto paper
or into my notes app.

I wonder if one day
the poems will come with nothing—
existing just to exist.

Will this feeling, emotion,
or whatever it is,
ever arrive
separate from the poetry?

I want to do other things
the chores call me
but each time it’s harder
poetry has tangled me in such a way that
ah…
I just want to keep drinking from it
forever

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

It feels so strange—
as if I’m out at sea.

No land in sight,
only blue waves
rolling back and forth.

Sometimes
they bring me calm.
Other times
they bring despair.

I believe that after anger
there is a beautiful place to be—
a place of peace.

Like on a day of heavy rain,
thunder and lightning,
if we could only fly
above the storm,

we would see that the sun
never stopped shining.

It was there all along—
we just couldn’t see it.

My cat starts to meow
He sniffs my nose
then makes a nest on my chest
while I’m lying down
He rests his head right over my heart
He’s seen me cry all day
He knows I want to die
But there he is
reminding me
that my heart
is still beating

I will take all this pain
anxiety
nervousness
and turn it into poetry
Sometimes it will come out beautiful
Sometimes it will come out raw
Both
are deeply spiritual

One day I want to climb
to the highest place I can find
stand face to face with danger
and meet freedom in its eyes
see the vastness of the blue sky
and the stars as they shine
take a leap into life
and embrace death as mine

Maybe the problem is me—
that I loved too much.

I wanted you to give yourself
the way I give myself.
I wanted you to cry for me
the way I cry for you.
I wanted you to care for me
the way I care for you.

To give you an idea—
I talk to you even when you’re not with me.

My God,
that’s awful.
I did give too much of myself,
and I don’t know how to change it.

It’s not just with you—
it’s with everyone.
I love too much.
That’s the problem.
Or maybe not.

Maybe the problem
is expecting you to love me
the way I love you.

But now I hate you.
You’re showing me
how much of an idiot I am
for giving myself away like this.

Because no one cares.
You don’t care.

I don’t think I ever gave you love—
it was charity.
It was my desperation
taking the lead.

How could you let
such an important date
go by unnoticed?

I came home
and you were asleep.
How?
It was supposed to be special—
even if we celebrated another day,
today never comes back.
Never.
It’s gone.

And I think I’ve grown.
I always give another chance,
always tell myself it will get better.

And yes,
the problem is me—
I keep carrying this relationship
on my back,
feeling bad for making you feel bad.

When I feel bad, you say,
“*******, leave me alone,”
and disappear for two days,
then act like nothing happened.
“All good.”

There’s no nonviolent communication
that could calm my rage,
my hate.

I will touch myself this time
with hunger,
as revenge
for all the pain you caused me—
and you won’t even know.

I’ll think of other men,
because in my mind
they’re better than you.

Why do I keep breaking myself
to make others whole?
To make you happy?
I’m not happy.

You know I take medication
just to be okay—
and still,
this won’t work.

I need to give a little love
to myself too.
A lot of love, actually.

I’ve written about this before—
the missing piece.

Yes, the piece is already here.
I don’t need to search for anything.

Who said emptiness must be filled?
Who said it’s even empty?
Couldn’t it be a wound
that only needs to heal?

I am already whole.
I just need to be aware of it—
and that
is the hardest part.

Yes,
I can get upset
over silly things.

Yes,
I can get angry
at the smallest details.

And that’s okay.

I take those feelings,
pour them into poetry,
or fists against my pillow.
And that’s okay.

But if I spoke of these little things—
the failures,
the sadness—
to everyone,
not all would understand.

And that’s okay.

It’s about feeling,
letting it out,
letting it pass,
and finding peace
within myself.

Funny—
it feels like life
has crookedly aligned itself again.

The crisis has passed.
The paper says
we’re divorced,
but our bodies
say something else.

You know exactly
where to touch me,
and I want to try new things with you.

I think I love you—
not with that
passionate, reckless love,
but with a mature one.

I know I have traumas.
You have them too.
And sometimes I feel ashamed,
because I’ll have to tell people
we’re trying again
when they rooted
for it all to end.

Thank you
for agreeing
to give us
another chance.

you said:
“you’ve been kinda annoying this week”
ok…
I guess I deserve that
so I start to cry
you leave me alone
alone
alone
alone
in a dark room
in our double bed
alone
alone
alone
I want to breathe
but I can’t
where is the air that was here?
so I just cry
cry
cry
cry
it’s a never-ending cycle
the pills calm me down
you apologize
you say you didn’t mean it
but I still feel
alone
alone
alone

Because you never ask
or say anything
Can’t you see I’m suffering?
I’m a nobody to you
Well, at least in the end
I’m feeling something—
anger

I climbed out of a well
and swore
I’d never go back.

But this one is different—
it carries
the bitter taste
of suffering.

I thought only in prose
I could be whoever I wanted to be
How mistaken I was—here too!
I can be a thousand and one things
And you? Can you be who you are without art?
I doubt it
But if you show up before me painted in gold
I’ll believe
Yes, I’ll believe
The world is mad

You’re not letting me go.
You’re making everything harder,
slowing down my plans.

Do you still miss me?

You look at me, angry
in the middle of our friends’ wedding party
and ask
why I’m always sad,
always making drama
in every moment that should be
happy
joyful
I look at you, confused
lost inside my feelings
I only know I feel bad
really bad
but you can’t see it
I’m not even sure you care
So I just say
I don’t know why

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

It aches in my gut
when I think about
how you must be feeling.

Your wife left.
Your wife didn’t want you anymore.

Are you blaming yourself?
Have you been crying—
like you cried to me that day,
saying the pain was worse
than when you lost your brother?

Is it because I’m still alive?
Because the possibility
of something being done
still exists?

That moment when anything can happen
everything can change
and you don’t care
Yes—you do care
about your well-being
about
being truly happy

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.

Calm now—
the waters are still.

Until one day
they will stir again.

I need to hold myself gently,
to know for sure
it’s okay to return,
it’s okay to leave—

as long as I’m aligned
with what I want.

I hate you
Don’t be alarmed
They’re strong words
But what I feel inside me
is unbearable
The truth is, I’m afraid
Afraid to say goodbye
and end up in the arms of another
who might hurt me
Not you—you’re good
But still
you’re hurting me
My heart races
because it knows what it wants
Freedom
Yet I keep it
caged

One day I went to a very rich man’s house for dinner
He told me:
“You write cheap poetry”
I replied:
“Yes—because if it were expensive,
even your heart couldn’t afford it”

We were arguing
about whether we should have kids.
I wanted it so badly—
but as you’ve said before,
if it were up to me,
I’d have everything yesterday.

I don’t know how to wait.
My feet never touch the ground.
We’d have eight cats,
five dogs,
ten children, and more—
because that’s who I am.
Intense.
I want to live everything at once,
all tangled together.

Maybe being with you
is killing that in me.
Where is the girl
who, when she wanted something,
wouldn’t stop until she got it?

She’s gone.
I lost her.
I can’t find her anywhere.
I searched in all my hiding places—
she’s dead.

And sadly,
she’s no phoenix.
I wish she were.

I killed her.
I was an accomplice in her ******.
How did I let that happen?
I wish I could go back in time.

How can the world change so much
after high school?
I know—it’s cliché.
But my God,
how things have changed.

And yet I’m still there,
trying to see that girl again
who no longer exists.

I tell myself
that as long as she’s alive,
she lives in me—
a comfort,
a lie.

When will I reinvent myself?
When will I finally give birth
to what I truly want?
Do I even know
what I want?

What do I do
with this conflicting feeling?

I want to go back home—
to safety,
to comfort.

But I also want to live,
to explore.

I want to be married,
to care for a home,
for a family.
I found meaning there.
I found purpose.

And who am I
without that skin?

Have I given
the other versions of me
a chance to appear?

I said,
if I go back,
I lose my progress.
If I don’t,
I lose nothing.

But I went back.
And now I have to ask myself—
maybe I’m learning
to stand my ground,
but I’m losing friends.
People are walking away.

I’m confused as hell.

I don’t aspire to high ranks
My humble little life
already so worn
is far too good to trade
for any gold that comes from hell
or any weapon that comes from heaven
None of it is worth it
if my heart holds nothing
I hope my journey
lasts many more miles of road
My verses—though not quite country songs—
bring calm
to my breath

I chose you—
different from before.
Not to be saved,
but because in you
I find freedom.

You asked me:
if every card,
every oracle,
God,
every sign
pointed to you—
and my heart
pointed to you—

would I have the courage
to send you the red heart?

Yes.
I have the courage.

They called us weak,
but we returned brighter—
diamonds no longer hidden,
thunder no longer hushed.

I walk into the storm,
shoulders heavy,
yet my spirit unyielding.

The world may strike,
but I carry a kingdom in my veins.
Every step forward
is a promise kept:
we will reach the home
beyond the river.

I was a glass—
Crystal, maybe,
Or whatever you’d call it.

But I shattered on the floor—
Or was thrown there,
I’m still not sure.

What I do know
Is that all the shards
Are scattered,
And I am gathering them,
One by one,

Discovering
What I’m truly made of.

I need to rewrite this story—
but to do that,
I have to leave it in the past.

I tell people I’m divorcing
as if the process
were still happening,
but it’s already done.

I am divorced.

And it’s a leap into the dark,
yet there’s still
a thin nylon thread
tied to me,
wanting to believe
I’ll return to our little house,
our nest,
our love.

I’m certain
That to you,
I was a dandelion
You held too tightly
In your hands.

The wind came
And carried all my petals away,
Leaving only my memory behind.

Know this—
I’ve flown to a better place,
Even if that place
Is far from you.