Mercedes Ortiz

Mercedes Ortiz (she/they) is a Uruguayan writer whose work has appeared in various literary magazines and anthologies.

Easy read of the poem in the images above:

Uncharted

I wake up in this body,
but it’s not the one I know,
not the one I grew up in,
the one I’ve trusted for years,
the one that could run, could stretch, could dance, could rest.

This one?
It’s a stranger,
a cracked mirror in the morning light.
It’s a knee that grinds with every step,
a hip that creaks like an old wooden floor,
hands that ache just opening the blinds,
like the act of reaching became heavy, became foreign.

Yoga used to be a reset button—
now it’s a battlefield,
poses that once healed now pull and strain,
as if my muscles learned a new language overnight
and left me out of the translation.

And the glasses—
three pairs, one for close, one for far,
one for the screen I stare into for hours,
each set a reminder that nothing’s sharp anymore.
And half the time, I don’t bother.
The world’s a blur I can live in
because swapping lenses is a game I can’t win.

Then there’s the weight,
creeping up like some shadow that doesn’t leave,
even when I’m careful, even when I push,
even when I count every bite like it’s a fragile thing.
The scales laugh back at me,
and the diets that used to work like clockwork?
Nothing. Just this weight that settles in,
stays uninvited like an old grudge,
and I’m left wondering, who decides these rules now?

Cycles gone wild—
a calendar I can’t rely on, a roulette wheel of blood and cramps,
pain that arrives without a warning,
pain that stays too long, overstays its welcome.
The moods like thunderstorms, rolling in without warning,
and me, a bystander to my own mind,
wondering who pulled the trigger on sadness,
on anger, on the irritation that creeps up like a stain.
Who said this rollercoaster of feelings would be fun?
It’s the wildest ride I never wanted to take.

And yet, in the quiet moments, there’s a fear—
for the changes that haven’t even arrived yet,
the ones lurking on the horizon like shadows,
the whispers of what might come.
Hot flashes, bone aches, memory fog, all waiting.
It’s a clock I can’t rewind, a wave I can’t stop.

And I don’t know this map,
don’t know the way through,
don’t know how to trust a body that’s become a stranger,
don’t know how to breathe into skin that’s changing by the day.

It’s like I’m unlearning myself,
and every day’s a new test in a language I don’t speak,
and all I want is a lifeline, a map,
some guide to say, This is how you live here now,
This is how you make peace with a body that rewrites its own rules.