there is a bird in the hinge
you know it
in the moment you almost choose yourself and don’t
I kept mine quiet, called it strength
it wasn’t—just fear, well-behaved
it learned my breath, waited, pressed
until I felt it
so here—take him
and know—color is effortless the moment you stop holding it back
you think I stay
because I return to the same chair
because my hands find you and you accept them without question
you believe that is the whole of me
but you don’t know men
you don’t know
how a man can enter a room and nothing visible changes
and yet something does
a slight turning
like a field responding to wind no one else feels
I have watched it happen without meaning to notice
there is something beautiful in them
I have to say that
the way they move with a kind of quiet certainty
as if the ground has already agreed to hold them
you would like that about him
you already do
you know the man who bends down to you
who lets you lean into his hand
who asks nothing more than the moment he is in
you know only the man who pets you
but you don’t know
how those same hands can linger after they are gone
for years he was simply someone I knew
a presence that did not ask to be considered
beyond what it was
and then
one day
nothing happened
and still
something shifted
I cannot show you where
there is no place to point
no beginning you could follow
only a feeling
like the first sign of weather before the sky changes
you don’t know men
how they can remain as they are
and still become something else
inside you
now
when he reaches
I do not step away
it is not that I don’t see it
it is not that I don’t understand
it is that something in me has already answered
and afterward
I carry it
that is the part
you would not understand
how I return here
sit beside you
touch you as I always have
and still feel
what has passed through me
not where it happened
but where it stayed
you understand the world as something that arrives and remains
you understand what can be held
but you don’t know
how something can move through you
and leave no place behind for itself
and still be there
you don’t know men
how they can walk away
with nothing in their hands
and still leave something in yours
and yet
there is no anger in me
only a quiet awareness
that I am
not as I was
that something in me
has opened
and does not close as easily
you look at me
as though I am whole
as though I belong entirely to what returns
and I let you believe it
because you do not know my language
you do not know men
and still
I stay
you walk past me
like you’re still carrying the outside in with you
the door closes
but it doesn’t take it with it
keys fall
bag falls
your hands don’t
they reach for paper
like it won’t ask you anything back
you don’t look at me
not yet
and I want to tell you
it can wait
you can sit first
you can breathe
but I don’t have that kind of voice
so I stay quiet
like always
you work fast
too fast
like something is right behind you
breathing
calling your name
in a voice you don’t answer
I hear it
I wish you could hear it
the way I do
but I can’t give it to you
I can only watch
as your hands press harder
like pressure might fix it
I have seen you in other lives
same body
different light
this home has seen it too
birthdays
graduations
deaths
walls holding sound
long after it leaves
your sons became men
one by one
they walked out of these rooms
carrying pieces of you with them
the doors closed softer each time
and the house learned
how to be quiet
you used to turn toward it
now you turn inward
and I
I remember everything
you don’t say out loud
you move like a held breath
like if you stop
everything will rise at once
I want to tell you
it’s already there
it’s not waiting
but I am not made for words
so I sit
and breathe slow
for both of us
you go somewhere
I know the place
your body stays
but you leave it
your eyes change
the room feels it
I go with you
I always go with you
because I can
because you don’t know how to stay there alone
you give things up early
like you’re afraid
of what might stay
I want to tell you
not everything that stays
hurts
not everything that grows
will take from you
but I don’t have language
only presence
only this small body
that follows you
without question
there are others
I know them too
the ones you don’t speak about but carry anyway
I feel them
in the way your breathing breaks
in the way your hands hesitate
over nothing
I sit with you there
I wish I could say
their names with you
I wish I could tell you
they are still soft inside you
but I can’t
so I stay
there are nights
you are not here
even when you are
you sit in front of me
but you are somewhere deeper
and I want to call you back
I want to say
come here
stay here
with me
but all I can do
is walk closer
sit beside you
wait
and then
you come find me
not because I called you
but because something in you
remembers
my stillness
my quiet
my staying
your hand reaches
your body softens
your breath returns
and I feel it
that moment
when you come back into yourself
I would tell you
you don’t have to leave like that
I would tell you
you are safe here
I would tell you
you are still whole
even when you feel like you are not
but I was not made
for your language
so I stay
where you can find me
every time you forget
where you are
So I stay
this, comes from something I’ve felt for a long time but didn’t know how to show
the first time it happened I was twelve
standing in front of a mirror, looking at myself too long—something shifted
I could see my face, but I couldn’t feel that it was me, and that frightened me
since then, I’ve learned to recognize the feeling
it comes quietly
I keep talking, moving doing what I’m doing but I’m not fully inside it
this is what that feels like to me
like something begins at one point
here at the shoulder and then spreads outward
not as damage
not as pain
but as a kind of release
like I am still here but also moving beyond the shape that holds me
the lines are that movement
the color is everything that doesn’t stay contained
the body is what remains when something in me has already stepped away
I call it rumor in skin because it doesn’t arrive as something clear or visible
it begins as a feeling barely there
difficult to name
something moving under the surface before it can be seen
it spreads quietly
without asking
and by the time I recognize it
it is already happening
I start with a line
graphite—light
almost unsure of itself
because if I press too hard it becomes a commitment
and I’ve spent years
living inside commitments
that didn’t fully belong to me
I build it slowly
short strokes
adjustments
erasures
small negotiations with the page
I try to find the shape
something recognizable
something that makes sense
this is the part
I was taught to trust
the part that can be explained
justified
approved
I hear his voice here
clear
decisive
you can’t make a living with words
you can’t make a life out of art
so I learned
to keep it contained
to make it small enough
to exist without threatening anything
but it never stays
somewhere in the middle
my hand loosens
not because I decide to
because I can’t hold it anymore
and that’s when I reach
for water
I let it fall
not controlled
not measured
I let it touch the graphite
and pull it outward
and it spreads
past the edges
past the version
that was acceptable
past the place
where I could still say
this is just a drawing
and I watch it
because I know
this part is not about skill
this is release
this is the place
I was told
not to trust
words do the same thing
they start contained
careful
edited
safe
and then
they don’t
they spill
they move
they say things
I didn’t plan to admit
and I come here
again
and again
and again
not because I’m searching
because I cannot swallow it
I tried
for years
to keep it inside
to make a life
that didn’t need this
but something in me
refused
quietly
consistently
until it began to show up in my body
in that pressure
in that drop
in those moments
where everything looks fine
and still
something is missing
this
this is where it goes
this page
this space
this place where I don’t have to explain
or prove
or justify
this is where I am allowed
to exist
without translating myself
the bird appears here
or almost does
mid-flight
mid-fall
mid-becoming
I don’t try to fix it anymore
I let it stay unclear
because that’s the only way it feels honest
I used to think
if it couldn’t be something
I could live from
it wasn’t worth this
this time
this attention
this need
but now
I see it differently
this isn’t about making a living
this is about not disappearing
this is about giving shape to something in me that will not stay silent
and every time
I let it out
in lines
in water
in words
something in me
settles
not completely
never completely
but enough
to breathe
and maybe that’s what this is
not a career
not a plan
a place
where I don’t have to hold it all
where I can let it move
where I can let it be seen
where I can stop pretending
it isn’t there
and that
that is why
I keep coming back
God is in the wrist
no, before the wrist
in that small electric yes
that happens before I move
I sit with paper like a woman with too many thoughts
He says nothing
Which is how I know it’s Him
Then—a line
It goes crooked on purpose
Leans into green
Like it’s remembering a forest
I’ve never seen but somehow miss
I try to fix it
He laughs in sunlight
Yellow breaks open
right through the middle of my doubt
Splits it clean, spills everywhere
He guides like that
Not neat
Not polite
Not asking if I’m ready just pushing light
through whatever part of me is still resisting being seen
My hand follows
like it’s been waiting its whole life to stop pretending it knows where it’s going —with one drop of color
I didn’t plan that reach
I didn’t plan anything
That’s the miracle
God is not in the finished piece
God is in the ruin of control
In the moment I let the brush wander and it doesn’t get lost
He was never waiting
at the end
He was in every mark
I almost didn’t make
you come from a woman from a body that carried you without question, from hands that knew you before you spoke, from a kind of care you never had to ask for
you were held before you understood what holding was, fed before you knew hunger, loved before you knew how to return it
you were soothed when you didn’t understand your own discomfort
you were seen before you knew how to be seen, you were answered before you knew how to ask
and then you grow into a world that teaches you distance teaches you how to move forward, how to leave, how to harden, how to forget what it felt like to be kept
and you come back to us as men standing in front of women as if we are something new, something to figure out, something to reach
but we are not new
we are the same place you once lived inside
so why do you do this
why do you stand so close and still not see us
why do you reach
without knowing what you’re reaching for
why do you touch without understanding what you’re holding
why do you move through us as if we are surface
not all of you
but most of you
and it repeats
the same distance
the same absence
the same quiet disconnect
as if something in you
chose forgetting
over remembering
because you don’t know us
not the way we feel you before you speak
not the way we notice what you don’t say
not the way we hold what passes through you without you ever stopping to see it
we feel your hesitation your distraction, your presence when it’s real
and your absence when it isn’t
we feel when you arrive
and when you don’t
and still
we are expected to remain
as if closeness is something that happens
just because you are near
but it is not
it is as if you forgot completely what it was like to be known without asking, to be cared for without earning it, to be held without having to arrive
and now you move through us as if we are surface—but we are not
we are still that same quiet place, still able to hold, still able to know
still capable of seeing you in ways you don’t yet —see yourself
but no longer willing
to be forgotten
while you stand inside us
you come from us
and still
you don’t remember
how to see us
how to feel us
how to meet us
in the very way
we once held you
charcoal—comes from something that burned all the way through its excuses
no color to charm you
no gloss to lie for you
just carbon—the aftertaste of fire
sitting in your hand
like it knows exactly what you’re avoiding
I take it anyway
it dirties me first
before
I make a single mark
Good
I don’t trust anything
that lets me stay clean
It drags across the surface like it’s pulling something out not placing something down
a line—too honest
another—already arguing with me
there’s no fixing it
only facing it
press too hard—it snaps
hold back—it exposes the hesitation like a cracked voice
mid-sentence
it reads the body better than I do
every tremor
every second of doubt
every moment I almost chose to be careful instead of real
it keeps all of it
even when I erase
and I do
it leaves a smear like a fingerprint at a crime scene
you were here
you meant that
or you didn’t
but you touched it
charcoal doesn’t care
about pretty
about finished
about approval
it cares about contact
about that split second
when the hand stops negotiating and just goes
reckless
accurate
unprotected
it’s not drawing
it’s exposure
a slow stripping
of whatever polish
I thought I needed
until what’s left
isn’t impressive
isn’t composed
just true enough
to make me look away
and then look back
because that’s the trap
once you see it
you can’t unsee
the version of yourself
that showed up in the mark
not the curated one
the other one
the one that doesn’t ask
to be liked
only to be left
on the page
exactly as it is
dark
unfinished
and impossible
to clean off completely
what do I do with this
please tell me
what does a woman do
when a man can sit in front of her feel everything
and then walk out of it like it never asked anything of him
what do I do with it
when the body won’t settle
when the hands won’t rest
when something in me feels slightly outside of itself
like I’m watching
my own mind
try to make sense of you
of the way you stayed
and didn’t stay
of the way something opened and you closed it
without even touching it
what have you done
no—what has this done
because it sits in me like something unfinished
like something that refuses to find a place
and I keep going back to the same few seconds
the same shift the same moment you became someone else without moving
and I’m here
holding both versions the one who leaned in
And the one
who looked at me after
like nothing had crossed
and it makes me feel
ill
not sick
not broken
just… off
like something in me
knows this mattered
and something in you
wouldn’t stay
and I don’t know
how to put that down
I don’t know
how to return
because —I have left before
I have walked away
from things that broke me
I know how to go
I know how to close a door
but this
this feels like something
I stepped into
that won’t let me out and there’s this thought
I can’t quiet
what if I made it all up
what if it only ever lived
on my side
and still
even with that
I can’t walk away
because I didn’t imagine
the feeling
I felt it—fully
and maybe that’s it
maybe I went all the way in and you didn’t stay there
and now I’m left with something that feels real
but has nowhere to land and tonight —I tried to draw it and my hands trembled
like they knew before I did— what I was touching
and I had to stop
because something in it made me nauseous
like seeing it outside of me
made it undeniable
and now—there’s nowhere to put it back
so I come here to digitally cure myself
and still —it stays awake in me and I keep thinking how can you sleep
how can you sleep
knowing this
or not knowing it at all
how can you close your eyes when something like this
is still moving in me
Nowhere to Land
It is the precise hand that separates me
From what I was permitted to name
And what I have always known beneath the visible
I say – body’
and mean a threshold
Just a place where things pass through
whether I consent or not
I say ‘silence’
and mean a room
that remembers everything
I say ‘love’
and mean the undoing
though I’ve called it other things to make it easier to keep
And here in saying one thing and meaning another
I begin to breathe not freely but sufficiently
As though metaphor
does the work for me
As though air is easier to accept when it arrives
in disguise
I do not take the world
as it is
I take it as something adjacent, tide, light
A turning I can tolerate and in that adjustment
it becomes manageable
Almost beautiful
And I
Still composed, still intact in appearance
Open just enough to continue
Without having to call it
what it is
My thoughts wander
Barefoot and unashamed
I say ‘leaf’
And I mean
The whole earth unfolding
I say ‘breath’
And I mean
The shared air of all who have live for me
Nothing is singular here
Nothing stands alone
Metaphor is my great companion
It walks beside me
Unbuttoned
Unafraid
Naming the world twice
So I may know it
Once more deeply
It takes the smallest thing in my hands
And makes it vast
A blade of grass
A pulse
Leaving me forever altered
And in love
Because, love is
The rupture
The bright unignorable incision that renders the literal, impossible
It is the precise hand
that separates me
from the wound
And from the words
that attempt to dress it
I am not the wound
I am not the language
that softens it
I am the edge
And
The exact place of entry
Unveil me
And call this moment truth
Or what you will
I have been so many things
A voice that softened itself
A silence that learned to endure
A hand that held
more than it was meant to carry
I have been a bird
Singing in red
A wound that would not close
I gathered myself inward
Folded light into smaller shapes
Asked what hurt
to become less visible
But it remained
Not louder just closer
So I stopped asking it
To disappear
I let it stand as it is
Unhidden
Unresolved
And still reaching
Learning
The careful art of keeping
what removed me
from solitude
entered with
wings half-lit
it gathered in my mouth
symbols forming
against the soft interior
of my speech
my afflictions
between hairline and skull
became fluent
abundant
uncontained
loving me
like a man
who knows his darkness
well enough
to let it breathe
outside of him
visible
unhidden
still reaching
toward light
I step out of my home
and the wind, gentle and unhurried
Finds the curve of my spine
Like a hand remembering a shape it once held
The trees in their full green bodies
The sky without boundary
The birds
Writing their quick signatures across it
And I, too, am written there
I do not deny what stirs in me
I include it
This warmth that leans toward another
It belongs to the same order as sunlight
As breath
As the turning of the earth
I say there is love here
And the feeling is ethereal
Yet rooted
You ask me why I love being a woman.
I could speak of the ways we are taught to tend.
To hold, to soften.
A rocking chair postured in selflessness.
Moving for others, rarely for itself.
That is one truth, but not the only one.
There is a fullness I came to. Without asking.
Not given, not earned, something that lived in me long before I knew
how to name it.
The fullness I carry
belongs to no one
who might touch me.
It is not awakened, it does not wait.
I have lived in opposition to my own shape, called it discipline, called it virtue.
Until even silence grew tired of my resistance.
Now there is no argument.
My body
Stands, soft, unrevised.
If I am loved, it is incidental, a passing light through a room
already lit.
I did not mean to write this.
It came the way certain things do. Without asking, without a plan.
As if something in me had grown tired of remaining hidden.
Nothing here is finished. Nothing has been made whole.
This digital space holds what has shifted, what softened, what could not return to where it once rested.
If there is tenderness, it is small and easily missed.
If there is opening, it is not sudden, only a slow turning toward something.
I am still learning to trust.
There was a time I believed that staying closed was the only way to remain intact.
That if I held myself carefully enough, quietly enough, nothing could reach me that might take more than I was willing to give.
And I became very good at it.
I learned how to remain how to speak, how to move through the world with precision, with control, with a kind of quiet restraint that made everything appear unchanged.
But there is a quiet cost to that kind of living.
You begin to disappear from yourself.
You begin to forget what it feels like to exist without guarding every part of you.
You begin to live as something contained, not something alive.
And somewhere in that without my permission something in me began to resist.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
Just enough to make it impossible to return to what I was.
And that is where these words come from.
From the place I kept hidden, not because it was empty, but because it was too full.
From a self that has always spoken in images
In petals that refuse their bloom.
In soil that remembers everything.
In light that does not arrive but waits until it is allowed.
My metaphors are not decoration.
They are translation.
They are the closest I can come to saying what I have carried, without breaking it open too quickly.
Without losing what it means to me in the telling.
If you know how to read them.
You will know me.
Not entirely.
But in the places where language hesitates.
Where meaning slips.
Where something is felt before it is understood.
Because . .
That is where I live.
Between what I can say and what I cannot.
Between clarity and concealment.
Between the self I offer.
And the one I keep just out of reach.
Words arrive to me.
And I must place them somewhere, before they begin to weep within me.
They do not come when I am ready.
They come when I am unguarded.
Late, when the world has quieted.
When the hour no longer belongs to anything but what I have kept inside.
Words keep me awake.
They find me in the stillness of 1 a.m.
Insistent, unresolved as if they have been waiting for the moment I can no longer hold them back.
And I write not because I choose to, but because I cannot leave them there.
Unplaced.
Unspoken.
Turning inward until they begin to break me open.
So this . .
All of this.
Is not a narrative.
It is not a resolution.
It is a record of what happens when I allow myself to remain present with what I feel.
Without forcing it into something easier, cleaner, or more complete.
Read this as you would something living.
With patience.
With care, without needing it to become anything other than what it is.
Because I am still here learning how to exist within myself without retreating.
Learning how to stay when every instinct tells me to close.
Learning how to let something be seen without disappearing in the process.
And these words . .
They are simply what remains.
When I choose, even briefly, to no longer hide.
You take me the way the sun finds a flower that never learned its morning
Not with warmth, but with a patience that does not leave
I had grown used to the dark
The kind that settles into the root
Until even the idea of opening feels like a mistake
The garden did not question me
It let me remain folded into myself
Petal against petal, a small life no one could enter
And no one could ruin
It worked
Nothing reached me
Nothing stayed
I waited for the taking
I knew how it went—how anything that sees you open does not stop
So I held myself tighter
Closed even against the light
As if survival meant never being seen soft again
And still
Something in me began to give
Not bloom, never bloom
Just a slight failure in my keeping
A single petal loosening as if it had grown tired of protecting what no one had come for
I felt it like grief
Sharp, quiet, uninvited
The body remembering something it had buried to keep living
You saw it
And you did nothing
You did not reach
You did not take
You did not ask for more
You stayed as if that one small opening was already too much to ask of me
And that
That is what broke me
Because I had been taught that anything that stays will hurt you eventually
That love is only a slower kind of loss
But you
You stayed exactly where I left you
As if I did not have to give you anything else
And so
I opened a little more
Not for you
Not even for the light
But because, for the first time
I felt something I did not recognize
The absence of harm
And it was unbearable
Because it meant
I had been closed all this time for something that was not here
And now
I do not know how far I can open
I do not know if the dark will return
But something in me
Something small, tired, still alive
Keeps loosening despite it
Because you did not take me when you could have
Because you did not break me when I was already open enough to be broken
Because you stayed long enough for me to feel what it is to be held in the light
And not disappear
Color does not sit on me
It enters
The way pigment enters canvas
Pressed
Worked in
Slowly absorbed
Until it can no longer be removed
I feel it first
As a warmth
A red laid beneath everything
A ground that breathes through the surface, rising in soft intervals with my pulse
It is not placed
It spreads thin at first, a wash of heat, then deepening
Thickening, until it holds inside me like something alive
Gold moves differently—
It lingers
A glaze across the ribs, caught in the curve of breath
Like light resting on bare skin just long enough to be felt
And blue
Blue opens me
A slow saturation
Wet into wet, bleeding through the edges of my body until even the quiet begins to expand
There is no clean boundary
No edge that does not soften under contact
Everything blends
Color into body, body into language
Language into something that cannot be separated once it begins
My hands know this
The way they move, the way they press, the way they follow what has already started beneath the surface
Every mark carries sensation
A pressure, a drag, a yielding
As if creation itself were a kind of touch that does not stop at the skin
And I let it happen
This layering, this slow insistence, this quiet undoing of distance
Until I am no longer working with color
But inside it
Held in it
Moving with it
A body that has become its own surface
Warm
Open
Continuously receiving what enters and chooses to stay
You arrive here not as a beginning—but as something rewritten by its own hands.
Your children have stepped out of your body into their own weather, calling you less, needing you in quieter ways—like a photograph still warm from the sun.
Your parents soften into time, their voices folding, their strength becoming memory while they are still standing.
And you—you are no longer who you were when everything required you.
Now, you require yourself. You move differently—with a kind of knowing that drips slowly from the center of your chest.
This is not loss.
This is space.
A clearing where your name sounds new again.
Your hands—once full of everyone—begin to open, and in that opening something wild and unrestrained begins to breathe.
You are not starting over.
You are rearranging—like light when it realizes it no longer has to prove its brightness.
Tilt my throat to the sky
As if I belong to the sun
Not to be chosen
Not to be touched
But to be taken
By something
That does not ask
My name
But here
Light arrives
Like a blade
I do not flinch
I let it see me
And my pulse that has carried
Too many unsaid things
I have been quiet
In rooms
That did not deserve me
I have folded myself
Into smaller weather
I do not lower my face
I do not hide
The tender architecture
Of being alive
Time spent
In this commercial space
Immeasurable
Nights, days, collide
Growing this business
Has left many gaps in this blog
Months, years of silence
Yet, words collide
Meeting me in disbelief
And in this mutuality
I break my fast
Before dawn
You make my flame slow
It’s not what I give that smokes
To draw what we both can’t kill
In this mackerel atmosphere
I love you
Down tidily
Waist deep
Men like you
More absolute
A general liberty to sting
i pass by
the oldest
mountain
denying
every stain
of rain
i should have resolved
the tactics of my faith
Orbits of grace
At the in’s of me
Right here
I fall
110
Times a day
Like something
That still glows
Tucked, under
A single address
My land of traumas
Heightened with fear
A place that holds
My childhood
So terrifyingly
Deciphering torment
And the inability
To seek help
From people
Who watch you
Fall, in less dirt
Painful terrains
This is Cuba – 1979
Martyrs of disguise
Making parenthood
Less fiable
As everyone
Is too busy
Surviving
Their
Own
Imprisonment
I’ve been
A lonely walker
For decades
This life
Has taught me
To believe
That above my name
There is a vacancy
A beautiful sky
With blue lips
That speak for me
Making peace
For the rest
Of my existence
Like a road
That is long
Yet spangled
I once knew
How light was spent
Its trickling effects
As faith pointed
With a golden rod
My own despair
Sat in a womb of fear
Aware it was not science
My conscious inadvertently
Reversed millions of words
Narrowing it down to one
-God
Heavy lines
Mounted over me
These purple nights
Drowning super stars
Forgetting what it is to write
Phosphorus dynamite
Encircles and intertwines
Muting one decade at a time
Stone COLD
Hold ON
You’re still STRONG
NERVE pain loneliness
I haven’t LEARNED anything
EXCEPT for the LINES across your FACE
MORE human, than YESTERDAY
I am adapting
Cowardly, but adapting
This is distinction
Between surviving
And existence
My mercy
A need to substitute
My mouth, for a dream
Different homes
Pincushions for doorknobs
Damnit I love you
One must be blind
Stripping God of its own light
Things none of us could be
The profound luster in lines
It’s happening to me
A wound, too echo’d to reveal
That love is not found in days
Forgot
How still
Your mind is
This is not
A compliment
It’s rhetoric,
It chokes
The good parts of me
Covers us in blue
In the instant
Of this instant
Memory invents
Another present
A circular courtyard
With superstitious
Flashes of light
Intended to cover
Every crack in our horizon
The eternities of a second
My whole life to solve
Pitiless searches for a body
To grow old with
Nameless sensations
Such a cruel thing
To miss the dead
With this immeasurable clarity
Like gravid drops of hope
Spinning over itself
Tirelessly, till we learn
How to love, again . .
The furthest of reaches
Sex seal serpentines
These syllogisms
Transform me
Inside is outside
It is everywhere
And nowhere
Invented
Devoured
– Man
the world spins
ready to loose, and peel
comparable to a star
proudly moving through water
there is no equal
more beautiful
than her roseness at my feet
i admit here, i seek shelter
a shelter of brightness
when most of my most, is dark
cross high and unstrange
Mari Sánchez Cayuso 
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