I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight,
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.

What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.

My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.

Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train,

Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.

Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.

Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.

Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.

My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?

I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.

The urge to disappear
when your tears refuse to fall
yet your smile fades slowly.
hopeful eyes, drowning in silence,
held back by unspoken pain.
when your voice stays locked behind the cage-
and you realise...
This hurts more than any sword could ever **** you

There was once a child
born beneath the sign
of unburial.

She carried too much—
not in arms
but in tethered memory.
Things with no names,
only weights.

A cracked watch
that ticked in reverse.
A button from a coat
that no one had worn
in three generations.

A feather
from a bird
dreamt once
by her grandmother,
never seen again.

She believed—
as those marked by absence do—
that keeping meant remembering,
and remembering meant
nothing would vanish.

Others crossed her path,
offered to help unfasten the straps.
She refused.
They did not know
which talismans bled
and which only looked like wounds.

So she walked.
Through salt seasons,
through bone-rattling frost,
through forests with no floor
and skies that never asked her name.

The bag grew heavier.
She grew cleverer.
Silent.

And then—
on a day that wasn’t special,
under a sun that wasn’t kind—
she set it down.
Not as surrender.
As an experiment.

The earth did not crack.
The ghosts did not scatter.
Her shadow did not abandon her.

She sifted the contents.
Some were dust.
Some were still singing.
Some curled away like dried petals
and begged to be left behind.

She took a key.
She took the bell.
She left the rest
for the moss.

She walked on.

Not lighter, exactly—
but less governed
by the shape
of her grief.

Pull this thread
and I unravel
My eloquence
becomes a frantic search
Scars and sinue
This cold hand of reality
That digs my grave
I wane in the wind
My breathe I reclaim
Fragile games we play
Fragility melds in this solemn gray

You said you wanted to jump
Off the porch
Instead you sat out there and smoked

You asked me to braid your hair but
I didn’t know how to,
You bedazzled the TV remote with red rhinestones

I listened to you rap in Spanish
I let you make me ramen–
Our shared comfort food

I didn’t know how to reply when
You called me beautiful
I wrote poetry in the dark
So the light wouldn’t wake you
I stayed in our room
Because the door would have creaked
If I left
And I didn’t want to startle you
We’d just been watching horror movies
Plus I knew you needed some rest
You were tired/hungry/cold from living on the streets
Yet somehow you had the energy
To bother taking care of me

And I wanted to do the same for you

The water was crystalline and cold
I danced with you in a crushing grip
and distant disconnection.

I held on to you—
in an illusory intimacy,
and deafening silence,
in the moments of fulfillment,
in the endless hours of isolation.

It was my first dance—
chosen with open eyes.
Youth tames wild rivers,
but the swirling depths take away
strength, naivety,
and wonder.

I persisted in stubbornness for years,
suspended between the worlds—
like a stone swallowed by a waterfall
at first, looking into an icy void
then into the warm sun,
convincing myself
I could heal something,
never having been whole.

Uncertain of what was
much closer to me—
my persistence
or my yearning
for what would never come to be.

Then the river tore me from the shore
carried me far away.

Did I ever have a choice?

The hardest thing
is to say goodbye to what
was never real.

This dance by the waterfall’s edge
will remain the only dance of my life.
I know I don’t want to be trapped
in the cold waters rushing toward
the abyss.

My heart is free to live or die
Let it be rambunctious
Let it swim with women
Who know its intent
Immerse it in color
Lick its wounds with the tongue of regret
Let it dream of love
Past and present tense
Will it open wide to harvest your scent
I need it to grow old and savor sublime
This beauty you hold
I admire in awe

Prose rattles my cage
To be the doormat of inane
Speak the truth as they dance on graves
Hollow angst will marinade, too little too late
Meaning evaporates, banal finds gray in this toothless parade

Don't throw hate over me
Don't push my dreams into the sea
I do breathe like you
Though I'm black in hue

It's not my fault at all
I'm black at his call

Black is sapphire like me
Black is Jasper like me
Black is menalite like me
Black is granite like me
Black is rose like me
Black is gloss like me
Dont throw hate over me
Dont push my dreams into the sea

I wanna fly in the blue
Though I'm black in hue
O my bro it's not my fault at all
I'm black at his call

Let me fly in the blue
Let me sing like the cuckoo
Though I'm black in hue
Let me fly in the blue
Let me sing like the cuckoo