I was born in Rosario, Argentina, and I never left. I’ve changed neighborhoods a hundred times, rented places falling apart, slept on mattresses thrown on the floor, lived with people who loved me and others who just used me. But Rosario always brings me back to myself. The heat, the noise, the dirty sidewalks. It’s my city. I work as a visual arts teacher in public schools. They move me around. I get tired. I work with teenagers, and I get along with them. They don’t see me as some authority, but they listen. I feel more like myself with them than with most adults.

I’m a mother of two boys. I raised them alone, the way I could, the way I knew how—no help, no filters. They grew up seeing me naked, overwhelmed, laughing like crazy, crying without shame. They’ve seen partners come and go. They’ve seen my body change. They saw me broken, passed out on the couch with an empty bottle. And they saw me fight back and survive. I’m no role model. But I’m real. And that counts more than any ideal.

I’ve lost myself in a lot of nights. Parties where I knew no one, beds that smelled like others. I let strangers touch me without asking names. Some never wrote again. Others still send messages at 3 a.m. I’ve done awful things. And amazing ones. I once fucked a guy in a public park while cars drove past us. Another time, in a club bathroom with the bass shaking the walls, he bit me hard enough to leave bruises for days. And I liked it. It hurt, but I liked it.

Desire drives me. But not just any kind. I don’t care for hesitation, softness, or men who shrink themselves. I’ve always wanted the kind that fills the room without asking. The kind you don’t forget. I’m not into small things—small talk, small plans, small bodies. I need to be overwhelmed. I need someone who knows how to take up space and not apologize for it. That’s what calms me.

I like excess. Art, anime, politics, endless shows, all-night fights. I doomscroll through social media like it's wine. I get turned on by bold conversation, by someone who can challenge me without flinching. Some days I stay in pajamas, locked away in silence. Other days I put on perfume I can’t afford, high boots, and step out so the world can feel me. That’s who I am: chaotic, impulsive, explosive. But alive.

I’m not afraid of aging. I’m afraid of fading. Of no one watching. Of no one wanting. Of being forgotten. I want to leave marks—on skin, in beds, in the memory of anyone who ever crossed paths with me. And if they can’t handle me, they better at least remember me.