Once there was a little girl, sweet and naive.

Now there is a taller girl, joyful and carefree.

Lest you believe this was an easy feat,

let me share the story of this little Bo-Peep

You are always 50 paces away from me

For “distance makes the heart grow fonder,”

or so they say.

Intimacy makes my heart race,

not with joy, but in fear.

“Please don’t hug me.”

Anxiety claws her nails down my spine.

My decision?

I refuse to be controlled by her any longer,

done with her desire to push everyone away.

I faced her head on and said...

“I love you. It is okay to let them in.”

 I wrapped my arms around her,

a smile crossed her lips, 

and she was gone.

Once there was a little girl, sweet and naive.

Now there is a taller girl, joyful and carefree.

Lest she remain with her walls held high,

let me finish this story with a sweet goodbye.

Eu cresci falando português, but school began.

Eu amava viajando para Brasil, but it got too expensive.

Eu tenho saudade da minha família, but I can’t see them anymore.

Eu cerrou lembra os dias bons, but they seem so far away.

I miss meu cultura.

It was not so long ago

A pleasure I had to forgo:

Your lips on my lips

Brushing skin like fingertips.

Oh how dearly I miss you

Your presence like morning dew

Sticking stubbornly to my heart

Wishing nothing drew us apart.

Do you miss me so?

Memories dragged in tow

Of the days and nights

Everything felt so right.

I must live in the moment

For longing after you is torment.

Waiting for you to crawl back

Is like waiting for the earth to crack.

Waiting for you is pointless

I shall not remain joyless

Come again oh love

Push me back into life with a shove.

What happens when you stop feeling?

Going through the motions of life,

Always rushing to arrive at a

temporary destination.

You don’t stop feeling because of pain or loss.

You are just too busy to feel.

What is the opposite of love?

Most of you thought “hate”.

Hate is not the opposite of love,

Apathy is.

So how can I love, when I feel nothing?

Simple answer.

It starts with empathy.

Not “I know how you feel”,

But “tell me how you feel”.

That is what we all need.

So tell me, how do you feel?

Tears streak down her face,

As she reads the diary entries of before,

Ones filled with pain and sorrow,

And melancholy more.

Friends who were not friends,

A love forever lost,

Anger of betrayal pure,

Dealing at a cost.

Her heart has been tortured,

A hot knife pierced in,

Beaten by the close,

Her heart is now tin.

Rusted it is now,

Afraid to open again,

To the pain and sorrow,

She will receive when?

Puppets on string,

the front-lines are little dolls,

the chain holding their limp spines.

Clay molded by hands,

melting ever-so-slowly,

nails digging into their skin.

Children's young minds are strung 

by the ever-so-mighty,

the wiser and the powerful.

Their minds are susceptible clay molded

after the dictators of the home.

Mirror images are the nightmares of origin.

She flew to me,

smooth as the sea,

flying through and quick.

She sat upon my shoulder,

her weight like a boulder,

her secrets holding thick.

Her tweet and whisper,

led my ears to blister,

the truths a burning pyre.

The tears fall,

the event banal,

with the lying fire.

She won't fly away,

she is here to stay,

the demon on my shoulder. 

Tick goes the clock,

yet I am here docked,

a puppet to the older.

Will you hold my hand?

Across my wobbly bridge?

While I sway, the wood creaking

Beneath my bare feet?

The water is hurried,

Chasing the howling wind,

A sport I have become a master,

Yet an amateur

Because who can catch the wind?

Will you hold my hand,

Through my labyrinth woods?

While I become lost, the path uncertain

Beneath my worn feet?

The trees are moving,

Bending to the howling wind,

A game I once played,

Yet no more

Because who can always bend?

Will you hold my hand,

On my way home?

While I smile, the sight overwhelming

Beneath my earnest feet?

The gate shining gold,

Blocking the howling wind,

A state of mind I practice,

Yet with no more need

Because who can block wind when it is

no more?

Secrets are the heart's anchors. Not the kind that keeps you grounded in the here-and-now; this anchor is the kind to bring you down to the bottom of life's ocean. Why can't secrets be birds on a tree? They pester and eat the leaves, but then they eventually fly away. Why can't secrets be bees? They take your happiness but spread it to others. Why can't secrets be shared? They would lift you up instead of bring you down.